


Another Last Chance

by eadunne2



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Steve Rogers, Consent, Fluff, Genius Bucky, Light BDSM, M/M, Motorcycles, Nat is the best, Oral Sex, Past Drug Use, Porn, Slow Burn, Smut, Steve Rogers's Motorcycle, Steve is kind of a dick sometimes, addiction/recovery, because he is SO BAD AT FEELINGS, past trauma, powers, super powers, weird food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-05-30 20:42:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 53,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6439687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eadunne2/pseuds/eadunne2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Buck gets a job working with Nat, it’s purely a survival move. He’s expecting the nightmares and the cravings, but he's not expecting the bed, or the bikes, or how good it would feel to see Nat every day. He wasn’t anticipating the library, or the food, or a place that might someday feel like home. And he really wasn’t fucking ready for the man who turns out to be his boss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Buck is a recovering addict and many of his past friends/roommates were drug users too. The mentions are brief and do not glorify the use at all. (I’m in recovery and I was purposeful about that, if that helps inform your decision one way or the other) but I just want you to be aware.

_Here’s to new beginnings._

The wind is cold as fuck as at the bus stop, but Bucky doesn’t mind much. It’s weirdly soothing to pretend the low temperature is the reason for his trembling body.

Long breaths come easier out here, where the air smells like food and cold and exhaust rather than weed and dirty laundry, allowing him to clear his mind. He remembers that from the therapist all those years ago. Wipe it away. Empty it out.

Nat pulls up, red hair whipping in the wind as she leans out of a fuckin’ beautiful white Challenger, 1970 if Bucky had to guess a year, and he whistles low under his breath.

“You look like hell,” she says as he hugs her sideways from the passenger seat, but he can tell by the way she clings an extra second that she’s worried. He knows he does, dark circles around his eyes and a little too gaunt to be healthy, but he’s on the mend. 

“Back atcha.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh please. I look incredible.”

Slouching against the seat, he breathes deeply and pulls his hoodie tighter around him in an attempt to keep the nerves and the tremors at bay. This is a good place to be, with Natasha, the only person in the whole world he trusts. He’s safe here. Finally. It’s such an unfamiliar feeling that he’s rendered momentarily speechless.

“So,” Nat starts.

“So.”

“What the fuck is going on?”

He sighs. “Needed something new.”

“James, I hear from you sporadically at best for years. You’re all over the map, every job, every borough,” she pauses, gauging. “Every drug. And now you’re looking for, what?”

Only Natasha could say that without sounding accusatory. She’s tried to get ahold of him dozens of times throughout the years, with good reason. They’ve lived through the worst of the worst together and there’s extreme mutual trust between them, but she has a valid point, so he stutters to explain what he can, what he needs to, before his throat closes up and he has to make a joke instead.

“Three weeks sober. I couldn’t stay where I was, too many chances for relapse and I couldn’t afford anywhere else...”

“Why the change?” she murmurs, fingers grazing easily over the wheel, but he shakes his head, grinding his teeth. He can’t. It’s still too - 

_”Holy shit!”_

_The smaller man screams as Bucky shoves the accomplice down the alley, colliding with a dumpster. There’s terror in his voice but Bucky’s too far gone to care, furious that someone, anyone else would try to take advantage of him, and he grabs the guy by the shirt front and tosses him into the air._

Immediately her tiny hand is on his thigh, warm, squeezing. Permission to let the conversation lapse.

He glances out the window and takes her up on it. “What am I walking into here?”

“Well, I’m Rogers’s PA, and therefore your boss.”

“Oh shit,” he teases tiredly, and she slaps his leg.

“Grounds keeping and general maintenance. There’s a cleaning staff that you’ll have to work around but other than that, it’s all you.”

“Isn’t this place in the city?”

“It is.”

“And it has ‘grounds’?”

“Don’t air quote at me.”

“Nat, I don’t have a fucking clue about maintenance or landscaping or any of that…” He waves a hand absently. “Shit.”

She shrugs. “You have a genius IQ. Read a fucking wikipedia article.”

“First of all who even knows if that’s true anymore,” he bursts out, wondering how many brain cells a decade of drug abuse destroys. “And secondly,” he starts, then deflates. It's not like he can go back. “Fine. Great. Ok.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They fall silent as she hits the highway and he appreciates it, the way they can just exist side by side, even after all this time.

Their first few years in the group home together were rough, both of them skinny husks of children, ravaged by trauma and hiding their gifts so fiercely it took almost eight months of sleeping curled up next to each other in the same bed to realize they were both...different.

Super strength was relatively easy to hide, Bucky just avoided contact sports, but Nat’s wings were much more difficult to manage. She had to keep them secret, tucked away, and they’d cramp terribly. The day after waking in the night to hear the stifled sounds of her sobbing into the thin mattress of their cot he’d broken the lock on the emergency exit door to the roof and it became their new base of operations. She’d flutter around, showing off with tricks and dives that scared the shit out of him as he watched, doing endless pull-ups hanging from the bars of a billboard attached at the top level of the building.

Her hand still rests on his leg and he turns her wrist ever so slightly to see her tattoo, the twin of the one on his own forearm, the silhouette of a tiny bird, wings spread wide.

It’s faded, but then again so is his, and he brushes a finger over it gently. “Remember when we got these?” One of the kids at the group home had fancied himself a tattoo artist and Bucky remembers swigging cheap whiskey and laughing as they each took a turn under the gun.

Nat is all fire and iron to most people, but Bucky sees the wistfulness as she jokes, “Never before and never since have I been tattooed in a basement.”

“Hey, everyone makes mistakes.”

“I didn’t say it was a mistake.”

“Jesus, when did you turn into such a fuckin’ sap?” He can’t handle the softness in her voice and she knowingly distracts him with another smack to his leg, hard enough to hurt, and by the time his skin stops stinging, they’ve pulled to a stop. 

“Here we are,” Nat announces. “Home sweet palace.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he murmurs under his breath. 

The apartment Bucky’d just left was old and decrepit, two bedrooms shared between five people. This place, though, is gorgeous: warm brick with decades of ivy creeping across the face of it. A tall wooden fence separates the yard from the sidewalk, but Bucky can see a latticework arch wound with vines and the tops of a few trees above it.

“This is the place?” he breathes, as she pulls down a steep embankment and into the garage beneath the front of the house-mansion-palace, parking the car with a smooth pull of the wheel.

“Well, this and a garden and the warehouse out back, but yeah. This is it.”

“Holy shit. Holy fuckin’ shit. Holy goddamn -”

“James!”

“Sorry, sorry, coming.”

He follows, backpack and black plastic bag slung over his arm, not much in the way of worldly possessions, but enough to feel heavy. Or maybe that’s just what a sober body feels like. He’s still not totally sure.

Walking through the garage they pass a Chevy low rider and Bucky whispers, “Who the fuck is this guy?” before catching sight of the the two motorcycles tucked in the corner. They’re covered by a tarp so Bucky can’t quite make out the model, but he vows to come back and check it out.

“Didn’t know you were into bikes,” Nat comments, holding open the door to a stairwell.

“Come on,” Bucky says with a wink. “You know I’m all about fast and pretty.” In reality, one of his million random jobs had been as a mechanic and he’d learned about classic cars and bikes from a guy that he worked with. Pleasant memories among a sea of bad. 

“Gross,” she laughs, and in spite of his exhaustion, he plays along, clutching his chest.

“You wound me.”

“Good.” 

The banter feels like home. 

She pushes open another door and they emerge into a beautiful kitchen. While the exterior of the house exudes old money and class, the kitchen feels homey, if unreasonably large. Marbled countertops, an island, pantry space for miles...

“Earth to James,” Nat says softly, and he startles back to the present as she presses a keyring into his palm. “These are yours. Keep them on you at all times and do not lose them. If we have to change the locks, it comes out of your salary.”

“Aye aye captain.”

“You’re welcome to any food, and if we don’t have something you want just write it on the whiteboard on the fridge and I’ll pick it up.”

“Anything?”

She laughs. “Maybe not caviar. Although knowing you it’s more likely to be pickle juice or bagel bites or something.”

“Nectar of the gods,” he informs her and she gags.

“If you say so.”

They review the security codes and she gives him an envelope filled with copies of the house blueprints, and it’s that gesture, proof of how well she knows him even after all these years, that knocks him vulnerable enough to notice how quickly he’s fading. Withdrawals are a bitch.

She must see the shift in his demeanor. “Let’s get you to your room, yeah?” Thankfully it’s not far: up the main staircase and to the right, down a hall, hard wood with carpeted runners. 

“It’s too much, Nat,” he whispers when they step in. Vaulted ceilings, skylight, master bathroom… She just shakes her head.

“This is your home. Besides, there’s nothing smaller. You may have noticed this place doesn’t really do anything by halves.”

“No fuckin’ kidding. Thank you.” He drops his crap and embraces her, feeling the raised ridges in her back beneath the coat and between her shoulder blades. It reminds him. “Does Rogers know?”

“About mine. Not yours.”

“Is he...ok with it?”

“More than.” She starts to say something else then very obviously thinks better of it. “This is a safe place, James. He’s not warm or cuddly, but he’s a good man.”

It’s better than he could’ve hoped. Maybe it’s the chill finally leaving his bones, or Natasha’s arms and her familiar smell surrounding him, maybe it’s the fact that he has his own damn room with an actual working lock, but whatever the reason, he asks the most vulnerable favor. “Hey. If there’s any booze, any meds, anything, could you make sure it’s locked away? I don’t wanna...I still can’t...”

“Of course. I will.”

“Natasha. Thank you. For the job and the room and for...sticking around.”

Pulling back, she eyes him seriously. “Thanks for letting me.” It’s telling beyond words that neither of them makes a joke.

She kisses his cheek, and then he’s alone.

He locks the door behind him and does a sweep of the room, a routine born of both necessity and paranoia. Years of untrustworthy roommates ranging from bizarre to downright dangerous have made him cautious, but it’s the memories dressed up as nightmares that require he do this in every room he’s ever slept in. Every time.

Windows. Closets. Doors. Under the bed, dresser.

Satisfied but also craving so bad his hands are starting to shake, he brushes his teeth, splashes his face with cold water, and then stares at the bed. A bed. Not a floor or a futon. A bed. On a frame. With sheets. He sprawls on top, fully clothed, and closes his eyes.

Let it go. Wipe it clean. He times his breaths, in with the good, out with the bad, and sleep begins to creep in, over the discomfort of headache and cold sweats. His thoughts become disjointed, and he starts to drift off.

_”Close your eyes, baby!” his mother screams._

_“No! Mama!” He remembers slamming his little body into the intruder, super strength knocking the man back again and again, but the tendrils of the attacker’s mind worked their way into Bucky’s, pacifying, and the struggle became internal for just long enough…_

Carpet burns his bare knees as he falls out of bed in his haste, yanking things out of his bag in a desperate search: a sweatshirt and boxers and a notebook before - aha. Got it.

He drags himself back up with the little ziploc baggy in his grip, losing himself in the familiar slide of the plastic against his fingertips as he traces the digits memorized from the scrap of paper inside.

It’s from the man who saved him. Bucky doesn’t even know what he looks like, can barely recall his voice (why doesn’t he get to keep _those_ memories?), but he remembers what the man had said. “If you ever need anything, you call, alright? I’m here. If you need.”

Bucky never has and never will, but sometimes the thought of it keeps the nightmares at bay.

\--  
He does sleep. Eventually. And when he gasps into consciousness, panicking just a little at his unfamiliar surroundings, it’s light out. 

Disregarding his remaining weariness, near blinding desire for a fuckin’ line to help wake him up, and the dry scratch of his throat, he changes into sneakers and sweats, and creeps out into the cold.

He was never much for fitness, or health in general, but over the past month it’s become increasingly important that he stick to a schedule. Routine is necessary for recovery according to the internet and the one NA meeting he’d forced himself to attend, and exercise induced endorphins take the edge off, as much as anything can. Bucky tries to let his mind go blank, especially since muscle fatigue is a non-issue, but inevitably, worries creep in.

He pointedly avoids thinking about the men he almost killed or the wasted decade of his life he’s dragging himself away from.

Natasha says Steve is a good man. Bucky’s still nervous. It’ll be nice to have a job that keeps him busy, but he’ll have to be careful. 

People tend to be wary of him, no matter how well intentioned they are, when they find out about his gifts, and that’s not even getting into his other...preferences.

Then again, people have been wary of him for different, equally valid reasons, for years. He’s been through the ringer, and he looks it, not old, but even a month into sobriety he knows he still looks like an addict, sunken eyes and thin. 

It’s fine. He’s not getting sober for the aesthetics.

Nat finds him in the kitchen afterward, still in his sweats, eating a bag of frozen peas. “Jesus christ that’s disgusting.”

They’re not. They’re cool and crunchy and just a little bit sweet, and Bucky’s always been mystified by people’s confusion surrounding his food preferences, though it’s possible that between years of couch surfing and group homes and odd jobs, he’s acquired some bizarre tastes. Maybe.

He ignores her though, for now, content with retaliation via sneaking sips of her coffee until she gets fed up and fetches herself a new mug.

“Alright, so here’s your laptop. None of your kinky porn, this is work tech.”

“Regular porn ok then, angel girl?”

“No porn at all, _sweetheart_ ,” she bites back with a barely concealed grin.

“I would never,” he says demurely, and Nat rolls her eyes as she logs in. She shows him how to access the shared file with his list of duties, his new work email, the contact info for the employee schedules. It’s satisfying, finite details in spreadsheets, and despite already having a work order to rearrange a huge section of the back yard by the next day, he leaves their meeting feeling settled and determined.

A shower, a shave, and several articles about landscaping later, he gets to work.

The fenced in property turns out to be a blessing, shielding him from passersby so there’s no need to expend effort concealing his strength. He hauls boulders, pops plants from the ground in single sweeps of a shovel, and when he gets to the tree that needs to be cut down, forgoes the chainsaw and just pushes the oak over, breaking it apart and setting the pieces aside to burn later.

The opportunity to expend maximum energy is not wasted. It feels good to push himself, and even better to _do_ something, observe the improvement when he’s done. By the end of the afternoon several plants have been relocated for optimal sun and rain flow and the rest of the yard has been arranged to compliment them. He leaves the garden alone where it’s tucked into the corner of the yard with its latticework partition and arched entry. It looks personal.

By the time it’s done he’s famished, and actually a little bit sore, but despite a nagging headache he gleeful puts away the tools and goes to find Natasha.

“Holy shit, did you cook?”

Nat’s on the phone, perched on the island at the center of the kitchen, coppery wings hanging loose over the edge, and there’s a huge pot of what looks like stew steaming on the stove. She waves him away and shakes her head mouthing, “Rogers,” then continues on with her phone call.

It’s been years since he’s seen her wings and it warms his heart that they’re out so casually. Like it’s normal. Like it’s safe. He feels a latent surge of gratitude for this Rogers guy, whoever he is, for affording her that.

“No, I want to speak with his _boss_.” Her wings flutter irritably. “No. No. I don’t - no - wait! Shit.” Sighing, she drops her head to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Hello Sam.”

Buck ladles bowls full of stew before settling next to her as she wraps up the phone conversation which, while ostensibly for work, also has her biting her bottom lip not once, not twice, but three times throughout to stifle a smile.

“So,” Bucky asks innocently as he flips his own laptop open. “Who was that?”

“One of the charity donors. Well, his secretary and then a guy who works with him, so I talked to literally everyone except the person I needed to -”

“Nat.”

“Hmm?” She slurps her stew, and her feigned obliviousness is incredible but he sees through it, if only because he can’t ignore how her lip is a little redder where she’d bitten it.

“Natasha…” he says warningly.

“What?!”

“Who were you just talking to?”

“I told you.”

“What’s this donor co-worker’s name?”

“Sam.” He notices the tops of her wings puff up just slightly as she says it.

“Mhm. Sam what?

“Sam Wilson.”

“And how is Sam Wilson?”

“Unhelpful.”

“Good, good.” He pauses to chew. “So like, how cute is he?”

The long bone at the top of her wing cracks him in the back of the head and he grunts in surprise.

“Quit being an asshole,” she mutters.

“So, very cute.” He rubs the tender spot for a full minute before Nat finally slumps into her seat, defeated.

“Yeah. Very.”

“Are you guys…”

“No!” She says quickly, then tries again with more control. “No. He wants to be, I think. He’s a shameless flirt, but…”

“But what?”

“He’s normal,” she admits to her bowl. “No powers. I mean, he’s brilliant, absolutely, and a great guy, but...I dunno. I don’t want to drag him into this.”

Bucky has absolutely no right to be giving anyone advice but he says, “What if he wants to be dragged in?”

She shakes her head, ending the conversation with a truth that hits too close to home. “Better safe than sorry.”

He shrugs and respects her body language. It’s not like he has room to talk.

“Fuck, this is amazing.” It comes out garbled around a mouthful of too-hot stew.

“Yeah, Steve’s always cooking. I think it soothes him, and he makes way too much, which is great for us.”

“He doesn’t eat any?”

“I dunno,” she mumbles, stirring her food to let the steam escape. “I never see him in here, if that’s what you mean.”

Who is this dude? Super rich, incredible house, amazing cook, and invisible, apparently.

“What does he do?”

“Sales.”

“Of?”

“None of your business.”

“I don’t get to know what my boss does for a living?” he gripes, but Nat just shrugs, unfazed.

“Not unless he tells you himself.”

“Christ, you’re a pain.”

“I thought you were into that kinda thing,” she says, an especially cheeky reference considering she's one of the only people in the world who knows about that kink, and he shoves her, more cautious than necessary, still antsy since the incident that landed him here. Maybe she notices because one wing loops around his shoulder like an embrace, though her voice remains absolutely casual as she asks, “So. How was your first day?”

“Great, actually. The yard is done.”

“You saw the note about the garden, right?”

“No...?”

“Shit, you didn’t fuck with it did you?” She sounds only mildly panicked, which for Natasha Romanoff is full blown freak out.

“No. It seemed...private. I moved those withering plants along wall closest to the sidewalk. They need rain, they’ll get more on the east  
wall.”

Exhaling relief but also smiling I-told-you-so she asks, “How do you know?”

“About the rain? I just googled that type of plant, reasons it might be dying, it wasn’t insect activity, the yard literally tilts east then plateaus so I moved them to the lower...What? What are you grinning about?”

She shrugs. “Just damn glad you’re here. It’s been too long.”

“Yeah.” Then more softly, “Sorry about that.”

“I knew you’d come around when you were ready. And here you are, back in action, brilliant and sarcastic and too damn skinny.”

“Shut up,” he says through a mouthful, rolling his shoulders against a wave of cravings. “I’m working on that.”

As they finish eating, he logs his work in the spreadsheet and looks over the next few job requests while Nat replies to emails, curled in her chair with her legs in his lap. They work in comfortable silence until her phone goes off, rapid-fire texts, and she sighs muttering, 

“Goddamnit, Rogers.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing. I gotta go,” she says, unfolding herself from the chair and his legs.

“So, not nothing then.”

Warningly she mutters over her shoulder, “Let it go, asshole.”

He grins toothily. She can’t actually expect him to do that.

He does wait a minute or two, slurping down the last of his stew as he watches her leave, wings folded up to keep from dragging on the floor but not tucked away beneath her shoulder blades, a sign of her casual comfort just as much as the tank top she’s wearing or her bare feet as she moves noiselessly up the main staircase, but then he follows.

“Rogers, it’s a new era. Fury is not his predecessor.”

“I’m aware. I’m still not interested.”

The office door is cracked, warm light pouring out onto the hardwood and carpet, and Bucky can see Natasha where she stands, arms  
folded calmly, looking tiny in comparison to the man across from her, his back to Bucky.

He’s built like a brick house, evident even through the khakis and blue collared sweater he’s wearing, and boots, inside his own house, in his own office. The over commitment to dad-wear is not the most disconcerting thing about him, however. Bucky’s fucked up on his voice, honey-warm and rough, resonating in his ribcage when it dips into a deeper register. It reminds Buck of something, someone beyond memory, but comforting in a way he hasn’t experienced in years. He wants to wrap himself in the sound. Needs more of it.

“You could do some good there,” Nat offers and he sighs.

“Again. I’m aware, and you know I do what I can, when I can. It’s just not on their behalf.”

“I know,” she concedes. “I get it, Steve. I’m not trying to push you.”

“Oh of course not,” he says, and Bucky can’t believe that such a serious guy can pull off sarcasm, but he does admirably. It makes Natasha smile.

“Ok, a little, but,” she says more seriously. “I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable.”

“I know. Which is why I’d like you to ask his people to stop calling.”

“I will, but I have before and…”

Sounding weary he interrupts, “And they still call at dinner time.”

“You don’t even eat dinner,” she points out, typing a reminder into her phone, and he shrugs.

“It’s the principle of the thing.”

“Whatever you say, Rogers. I’ll get on it.”

“Thank you. How’s the new guy fairing?” 

Bucky feels a pang of nerves in his stomach, butterflies and adrenaline, almost too close to the feeling of a good upper, but he can’t back away from it.

“Great. Did you see the yard?”

“From here. It looks nice. He didn’t touch the garden?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. That will be all.”

She nods her head by way of a farewell, and Bucky hauls ass before one or both of the painfully intimidating people in the room notice him.

\--

He manages rough sleep for almost a week, but Friday night breaks the streak.

Out in the yard earlier while repairing the fence a wave of memory had hit him, strange and vivid, leaving him weirdly warm for the rest of the day. Then someone nearby had been smoking weed, and the promise of sweet calm had almost driven him to break through the fence he’d just fixed and find the source. Then a shitty bout of tremors kept him from finishing the paint job on one of the back doors, so he’d gone to bed early hoping to just shut down until his body was done attacking him, but of course, no such luck. He’d lain awake staring and smoothing his fingers over that phone number in plastic, vaguely nervous without knowing why.

Blessedly, Nat texts around midnight.

_Warehouse._

Despite it’s very conspicuous location at the back of the property, Bucky still hasn’t been out there, mostly due to never having a goddamn second to himself, which is both purposeful and necessary, but now, stepping through the steel door into dappled darkness, he kind of wishes he’d poked around earlier. It’s huge, three stories tall but open all the way up. There are bright lights mounted in the rafters but shadow still covers much of the space, so he’s genuinely surprised when a tiny body drops from the ceiling, red hair streaming behind.

“Holy shit!” he hollers and jumps forward, but there’s a whooshing sound and gold-trimmed wings buoy Natasha back up into the air. “Damn it! You scared the shit out of me!”

Her laugh echoes through the vast space. “Sorry, not sorry!” She flutters across the room then back up towards the ceiling. “Come on!”  
His annoyance at his pounding heart, unfounded though it may be, dissipates quickly when he realizes that as much as this is a playground for Natasha, it could be for him too. There are tiered risers jutting from the walls in several places, an entire side of room has been commandeered for rock climbing, and chains and ropes hang down, swaying slightly, just begging to be used.

He sprints at top speed across the empty floor and leaps up to land lightly on his toes atop a slat of metal protruding from the wall. Spinning around he immediately jumps back off, catching a rope as he falls.

“This is fucking fantastic!” he hollers, swinging through the air, and Nat, all composure gone, giggles like a kid. “I told you!”

They’re short years from thirty, but that night, for _hours_ , they play.

They play a version of tag that would be horrifyingly dangerous for average humans wherein no one is allowed to touch the ground. 

They race to scale the rock wall, the ropes. Who can jump faster, higher...by the time they tumble down, collapsing on the dirt floor, they’re both sweating and bleeding a little, and laughing so hard they can’t breathe.

“You’re a fuckin’ cheater,” Bucky gasps clutching his side and Nat kicks at him.

“You’re just jealous.”

“Fuck you.”

“Though you weren’t into that.”

“Christ almighty.”

“Though you weren’t into that either.”

“Natasha!” Her laughter rings off the steel walls and fades. “What did this used to be?” he finally asks when he’s caught his breath, and she looks at him quizzically. “Before it was yours.”

“It wasn’t anything. Steve had this built.”

“He had it built for you?” Bucky clarifies.

“Yeah.”

“His employee.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

She turns to face him as she shrugs. He brushes away a strand of hair sticking to a cut above her brow and her eyes soften in response.

“He figured out that my wings had been bothering me...The next week, this was here.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to make of that. The life he’s lived has been kill or be killed, and that’s ok. He understands it. But this... simply being kind for kindness sake...he’s completely out of his depth. He finds, though, that instead of making him uncomfortable, it makes him want to try it out. What would it feel like to make someone else’s life better, just because you can?  
What would it feel like for someone like Steve Rogers to do that for him?


	2. Chapter 2

The motherfucking water heater is broken, and it’s his goddamn day off.

Up until now most of the work Bucky’s done has been cosmetic or preventative, shit he never would’ve cared about in his previous life, but when he gets in the shower and his nuts promptly retreated back inside his body, the repair is immediately prioritized.

By the time Nat texts him about it (“My nips are turning to ice.” “I don’t even wanna hear it.”), he’s already looked up the make and model and found the user's manual online.

It takes a good deal of reading, a trip to the hardware store, then an hour in the basement with a flashlight held between his teeth and a few burns he will not be explaining (thank you very much), but it gets fixed.

He throws the curtains at the top of the stairs open more violently than necessary, still grumpy from cold and lack of sleep, texting Natasha that the repair is done, but when he hears Steve’s voice from the office his feet decide to go the exact opposite direction of his room.

“The water heater’s fixed,” Natasha says.

“Good,” Steve sounds surprised. “How’d you get an electrician here so fast?”

“Didn’t. James fixed it.”

“The new guy?”

“You know damn well who James is,” Natasha chides.

Uncharacteristically flustered, Steve mutters “...That thing’s ancient. They don’t even make that model anymore. How did he…?”

“Well, there’s this thing called the world wide web…”

Bucky grins, relieved that Nat is just insufferably sassy with everyone.

“So you’re telling me he googled my archaic water heater, figured out what was wrong with it, and fixed it before breakfast?” He sounds impressed, which is impossible, but it makes Bucky’s chest expand with pride. It’s been a long time since someone’s sounded like that about anything that he’d done. It’s addicting.

He peeks around the corner to see Roger’s glancing out the window and absently wiping his hands, front and back, on the thighs of his slacks, a weird gesture for someone so conservative, and there’s nothing on them, but Bucky’s distracted by his profile, strong and stern and beautiful, the very image of control. Belatedly, Bucky wonders if he’s ever Dommed. He fits the part, and the thought sends a shiver down his spine.

“He’s a smart kid.”

“Apparently,” Steve murmurs. “He’s done well with the landscaping, too. Is that his background?”

Nat huffs. “Uh...no.”

“What then?”

Bucky’s nervous only briefly, but then Nat says, “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“Really, Romanov?”

“Really, Rogers. Wouldn’t kill you to talk to the guy.”

“I could order you to tell me,” he says thoughtfully and Natasha laughs aloud at that, which would have been Bucky’s own response if he weren’t trying to stay inconspicuous.

“You could try.”

Steve sighs. “We both know I won’t. Any more news about Stark’s donations?”

Tensely she replies, “No. I’ve spoken to Sam a few times, but it’s been hell getting through.”

Bored of the business talk, Bucky turns to head back to his room when without warning his knees give out. A wave of heat and a swirl of memory flood down his body, followed immediately by terror. That feeling…

It’s familiar, he recognizes it, but it can’t possibly be, the guy’s been in jail for years…

He catches himself on the doorframe of Roger’s office before he can fall, and by the stillness within it’s obvious the occupants have heard something.

He doesn’t stick around.

\--

It’s one of those days.

Bucky wakes up too early and goes for a run but is still antsy when he gets home, unable to shake that horrible flash of memory outside Steve’s office. He completes his daily tasks in record time and ends up pacing the floor of his room. When he can’t do that even a moment longer, he creeps into the garage and spends some time running his fingers over the smooth lacquer of the motorcycles, and has to stop doing that too because just the smell of oil and leather is making him so damn stir crazy he wants to crawl out of his skin. After hundreds of push ups and tossing in bed for hours he finally gets up and goes wandering.

Despite being charged with its care, there’s fair amount of the house Bucky hasn’t seen. He’s sure Steve’s office and room are off limits, but according to the blueprints Nat had given him there’s also a library in that wing.

Maybe it’s the late hour, maybe it’s the relatively new sobriety, but Bucky’s hypersensitive, hyperaware. The light is dim, always is in the house, the blinds are almost always drawn, and there are broad lights casting a soft glow but it feels almost too bright to his eyes that have spent the past few hours staring at the night sky.

The cream carpet runner is thick and soft against his feet, and he walks with one foot in it, one on the hardwood floor lining the edges, cool against his soles and he switches from side to side to balance the sensation. There are paintings on the walls, and some photos, but most of them are old, black and white. Buck thinks he glimpses a photo of Steve, arm in arm with an impossibly pretty woman outside a theater, but the date on the billboard reads 1962, so there’s no way. Maybe it’s his dad. Eerie. 

There’s no mistaking the library when he gets there. The threshold stands a few feet taller than the rest in the hall, making it easy to identify. Bucky finds the right key on the third try and the door swings open to rough wood shelves that line the walls from floor to ceiling, even on the far wall around the bay window.

There’s an honest-to-god rolling ladder, oak and iron, to help reach the higher shelves, and a blue and white striped couch nestled to one side. The whole thing is exquisite, and again Bucky finds himself wondering about this Rogers guy, and what life he’s lived to give him such impeccable taste.

He doesn’t wonder for long though, because the selection is incredible and he ends up sitting cross-legged in the cream colored carpet flipping through every Jules Verne book in the place, followed by a Philip K. Dick anthology, which he reads for so long that his stomach starts growling.

The kitchen clock reads 1:48 and Bucky grins. He could read for another hour or so and still get the required three hours. He inhales a few slices of bread and butter then digs through the pantry until he finds dessert.

Curling up at the kitchen table he shakes almost a cup of the lemonade powder into a tupperware, licks his finger, then presses it into the sour sugar and sucks the digit clean. It’s a favorite snack from a few years ago when he’d lived with a super generous coke addict who’d been obsessed with sour food: sweet tarts, sour straws, lemonade, margaritas, vinegar on everything… Bucky used to steal spoonfuls of the guy’s lemonade mix and let it dissolve slowly in his mouth, but it’s been awhile since he’s eaten that much sugar, so he tries to go easy on his stomach.

He dives back into the story about a golden man, an alien with the ability to see into the future, who’s so exquisitely beautiful that no one can resist him. It’s fascinating but hard to read; the “protagonists” are government employees charged with eradicating superhumans, and it hits just a little too close to home.

There are no laws against people like Bucky, but there aren’t any protecting them either. It’s not uncommon to hear about someone being attacked because of their gifts, and not every ability aids self-defense. Buck remembers a girl from the group home with the gift of accelerating plant growth who’d been murdered in her teens by a neighbor and her killer had never been brought to justice, so it’s disturbingly easy to buy into the story. He’s so far under, wrapped up in this golden man and his fear and his complexity that when Bucky looks up to find the source of a noise in the doorway, what he’s seeing doesn’t register right away.

At first he wonders if he’s looking at the man in the story. The guy in the doorway is certainly beautiful. Broad chest and trim waist, tawny hair: he’s hypnotizing, Bucky smiles up softly as reality begins sweeping back in. The guy steps into the room and wipes his hands on his pockets, bringing attention to the fact that unlike the golden man, he’s wearing a button down and dress pants.

At that realization Bucky begins to acknowledge that this guy is Steve Rogers, his boss, and while he’s not one hundred percent sure how to address the fact that he’s eating lemonade powder out of a plastic tub and reading a book stolen from the guy’s personal library, he’s fine until he glances up into lovely blue eyes...those eyes, those eyes -

_”Hey! Hey! You’re ok,” the guy says. “You’re ok.”_

_“He k-, he killed -”_

_“Breathe, son. Breathe. You got a name?”_

_“Bucky,” he whispers._

_“Bucky,” the man repeats. “You’re ok.”_

_“They’re dead.” They are. He watched the Empath kill them, not once, but a hundred times, forced into a loop of his own memories, lying there on the floor of his own damn living room._

_“I know.” A big hand settles on his shoulder. “But you’re not.”_

_“Wish I was,” Buck gasps, shivering in spite of the emergency blanket draped around him. He looks down at his toes where they swing above the ground from his perch in the back of the ambulance._

_There’s a bounce as the man slides off the bumper and down to his knees, looking back up with his brow furrowed. Bucky doesn’t recall much, but he remembers searing blue as the man whispers roughly, “Don’t ever. You survived, Bucky. You’re here for a reason.”_

_“Time to go Cap!” a low voice calls in the distance, and the man fumbles in his pocket, pulling out a receipt. He yanks a pen from the EMT’s clipboard beside Bucky and scribbles on it, then tucks the scrap into Bucky’s hand._

_“If you ever need anything, you call, alright? I’m here. If you need.”_

His wandering mind slams back into his own body, cross-legged in the kitchen as the man says, “Hey. Are you ok?”

Bucky drops the book and shoves away from the table roughly, almost falling as he attempts to stand, one of his legs having gone numb. The guy observes him, eyes only slightly widened but otherwise impassive for one, two, three deep breaths, not flinching or running away, and Bucky finds himself full of feelings he’s built a life on avoiding: longing and hope and lust and he shouldn’t, he won’t, he _can’t_.

He runs.

\--

Bucky rationalizes on his run the next morning, Steve and the blue eyed man from his past have to be different people. First of all, Rogers doesn’t look a day over 30, younger probably. And secondly, how could he be? Coincidences like that aren’t real, they don’t exist, and wishful thinking has never panned out for Bucky before.

So no. Not him.

And if it’s not him, then Bucky just freaked out some random hot rich guy, who also happens to be his boss, which is honestly less concerning to him than the fact that when he thinks back on it, Rogers had looked a little wounded that he took off with such alacrity, and damn, now he feels bad.

He thinks about it as he organizes the tool shed, and even harder when he sees that the anthology he’d been reading is still on the counter, and makes his mind up when he goes in for dinner and there’s homemade (Steve-made) pizza wrapped in foil in the fridge. He can fix this.

It’s no effort to stay up, he never sleeps anyway, and he heads down to the kitchen around midnight. There’s no guarantee that Rogers will even come down again, but Bucky’s been feeling progressively worse about the whole thing as the day passed, underscored by the fact that he really wants to meet the guy, get to know him, this man who employs strangers on the word of an employee, who runs a charity, and builds entire buildings for the people he cares about.

Unbelievably, the best case scenario actually comes to fruition. Steve shows up around 2 am, just as Bucky’s squishing his sandwich together and immediately starts to leave when he sees Bucky.

“Wait! Wait.” He turns back, staring cautiously, and Bucky steps away from the table. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I - you - just...stay, alright? Please?”

It’s ineloquent, even for him, but Steve steps back into the kitchen anyway, and after a long and wary pause extends a hand. “Steve Rogers.”

“James Barnes.”

“Good to meet you.” The ghost of amusement dances at the corners of his mouth and it makes Bucky’s stomach flip. “How’re you settling in?”

“Ohhh…” He’s not sure how explain that although everything is uncomfortable thanks to decreasing withdrawal symptoms and terrifying memory surges, this is actually the best he’s felt in years. “Great. Thanks for having me.”

Steve nods, eyeing the cutting board on the table before opening the fridge. He reaches for something, side eyes Bucky then withdraws empty handed, letting the door close with a sigh. “What are you eating?”

“Condensed milk sandwich.”

“What?” He sounds mildly horrified.

“Just - here.” Buck cuts a slice from the sandwich and hands it over. Hesitantly, Steve tastes it, and his brows twitch up minutely. Pleased. “It’s just white bread and condensed milk. Good huh?”

“That’s awful,” he says, but he finishes the slice with what could easily be mistaken for a small smile and Bucky is hit with a wave of wanting so profound it almost knocks him over. He manages a comeback, though.

“Whatever you say, sir,” Bucky teases softly and goes back to constructing sandwich masterpieces.

They mill around the kitchen together in weirdly comfortable silence. Steve makes a cup of tea, Bucky sets the french press to brew, and they finally settle at the table where Bucky pushes a second sandwich over to Rogers.

He accepts it without any reaction, but peels up the top slice of bread to calmly add another gob of condensed milk.

“Sweet tooth?” Bucky asks cheekily and Steve twitches his brows, unamused.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replies coolly, but Buck thinks his eyes twinkle a little as he bites into the gooey bread.

“Of course not, sir.” That time he sees Steve’s reaction, a quick inhale through his nose and a muscle ticking in his jaw. Interesting.

Steve takes a swig of tea then gestures to the book Bucky’d been reading the night before. “Have you read any of his works before?”

Glancing up quickly, Buck winces. “Sorry for taking that, I know -”

“I don’t mind, Barnes.”

“Oh. Yeah. I read Androids and A Scanner Darkly, but this is… I love this one.”

“Why?”

He doesn’t explain how since sobering up he can’t focus on anything for longer than twenty minutes and the brevity of these stories allows him to devour the thing more quickly than anything else he’s tried to read lately.

“I love how nothing is what it seems. The Golden Man, or the guy who thinks the aliens want him for research when really…”

“They just want to eat him?” Steve says wryly as he swallows a mouthful and thumbs condensed milk from the corner of his mouth, the shadow of something blue on his fingers, ink maybe, drawing Bucky’s eye for a moment.

“Yeah. It’s a good reminder that none of us really knows anything.”

“Is that right?” There’s some kind of challenge in Steve’s voice but Bucky doesn't back down.

“As soon as you decide you know something, you stop learning. There’s no larger detriment to progress than thinking you already understand.”

“Maybe,” Rogers concedes slowly, frowning at Bucky like a puzzle to be solved, and Bucky himself’s not quite sure where that came from, but it’s true nonetheless.

They finish their caffeine and their sandwiches, talking quietly about science and fiction and the repairs Bucky’s planning on next week. Steve doesn’t really smile, but he’s pleasant, calming on Buck’s constantly frayed nerves, and by the time Steve stands and wipes his (clean) hands on his slacks, excusing himself to bed, it’s almost sunrise.

During his sweep of the room, he glances out the window and notices Steve in the garden. Pacing. It’s strange, and he means to think on it, but as soon as Bucky collapses into bed, he falls asleep.

\--

“Sam,” Nat sighs, exasperated. She’s standing at her dresser where her laptop is propped open, email pulled up. Bucky’s sprawled on her bed finishing his plan for next week, but is now listening raptly. “Stop.” There’s another silence while Nat listens before she says, “I appreciate it.” Another pause. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Bucky hears the guy’s voice through the phone this time. “Why?!”

“Workplace relationships are unwise...Yes...Yes, but -” Whatever Sam is saying is making her face a little red and she’s not smiling, in fact, she looks a breath from tears, which is unheard of and unacceptable. Buck snaps his laptop shut, slides off the bed, and plucks the cell from her fingers.

“Hey Sam. Sorry, Nat’s gotta go.”

He’s expecting argument from one of them, but to his surprise, Nat ignores him in favor of returning to her work and Sam says, “Oh. Is this James?”

Caught off guard he replies, “Yeah.”

“Nice to meet you. Tell Nat thanks for me would you?”

“What do you want with her?”

Sam huffs a sad laugh and Bucky feels his response on a spiritual level. “I don’t want us to let this go just ‘cause she’s scared, or because I am. You know?”

“Yeah,” he whispers.

“Do you think she wants me to fuck off?”

“You’d have to ask her, but I...I don’t think so.”

“Me neither. Fuck. I dunno if that makes this easier or harder.” There’s a pause, then, “Well. Thanks James. Have a good night.”

“You...too?” And the line goes dead. “That was weird as hell, Nat. Nat?” She’s nowhere to be seen. He can hear her footsteps in the hall though, and stumbling into his sneakers, he chases after her, “Nat!” down the stairs, out the back door, across the yard and into the warehouse. The second they enter she disappears upward in a single rough sweep of wings.

Bucky finds a rope in the general vicinity of where she’d ascended and wraps it around his ankle. He pulls himself up slowly, giving her space as he climbs to the ceiling and swings across a few rafters to perch next to her.

They stare into the darkness for a long while, and Bucky knows she’s not mad at him by the way she shifts her weight to press their shoulders together. He has a million questions. He wants to ask about Sam, about Steve, about the state of her own guarded and fragile heart, but he stays silent.

He’s always tried to model himself after her, with her brilliant calm and unerring control, but tonight she takes a page from his book, for better or for worse. She breathes the weight off her shoulders and shoves him with a tired smile. “Tag, you’re it.”

\--

Bucky bursts into the kitchen after his run, sweaty as fuck, brain stuck on this sweet Chevy Impala he keeps seeing on their block, and doesn’t notice Steve standing in the open door of the fridge until he’s done slurping water from his hands cupped under the faucet in the sink. “Oh hey.”

Steve replaces whatever he’d grabbed and closes the fridge. “Hey.” His eyes sweep Buck’s body, rather unsubtly, Bucky thinks, but it’s not unwelcome. He straightens, wiping the water from his chin with the back of his hand, and to test his theory, licks a few droplets from his top lip.

If he hadn’t spent years as Natasha’s friend, decoding and interpreting the tiniest of reactions, he’d have missed the way a blush dusts the top of Steve’s cheekbones. But he’s a pro, and he notices.

Unfortunately, Steve then turns on his heel and disappears from the kitchen without a word, leaving Bucky with the weird feeling that he’d done something wrong. The feeling chases him throughout the day like the cravings he still can’t quite shrug, all the way into the garage where he needs to repair some of the exhaust fans.

The question is, why the fuck does Bucky care? It’s not like he’s gonna get fired for licking his lips, and he and Steve have had a grand total of, what, two conversations? They aren’t friends.

‘But you could be,’ whispers a small voice in the back of his head. ‘You could know someone else in this world, someone on a different path, who could help you be more than who you’ve been.’

Seems like a pipe dream, but the voice won’t shut up about it, and Bucky finds he doesn’t really want it to.

He’s been lonely a long time, which would seem impossible considering he hasn’t been alone in years, what with scores of dubious roommates, but no one in his life ever knew the truth, about his powers or his parents. No one (but Nat) cared if he lived or died, himself included, and more now than ever before, he’s so fucking tired of going it alone. Not to mention there's no one he trusts enough to take care of him like that… Not gonna happen, Buck. Let it go.

This job is relaxing for that very reason. The responsibilities here seem trifling in comparison to his own personal commitments of maintaining sobriety, keeping his powers secret, taking care of Nat, not accidentally killing anyone…

But that itself is reason enough not to pursue anything with Steve. The fact of the matter is Bucky could kill him with a single touch, one unrestrained gesture. He doesn’t trust himself anymore, and he’s not about to experiment on Steve.

He’s so caught up in thought that he’s not paying much attention as he descends the ladder to move it beneath the next fan, and his foot slips from the rung.

“Fuck,” he mutters as he falls, but instead of slamming into concrete, he hits something warm. The warm something catches him before he can slide and bounce to the floor.

“Careful,” Steve rumbles behind him, and Bucky breathes deep, feeling the arm holding strong around his waist.

“Thanks,” he whispers, glancing down. There’s a streak of red paint on Steve’s knuckle, and it’s not until Bucky forgets himself and touches it reverently with the tip of one finger that Steve loosens his grip. Buck feels the loss acutely. By the time he turns back around, Steve’s halfway across the room, uncovering one of the motorcycles.

‘Beautiful bikes,” Buck comments, hoping his voice doesn’t sound too crazy.

“Thanks.”

“Where are you off to?”

Steve shrugs away the question. “Meeting.”

Bucky nods and watches him grab a helmet from the shelf. An instant before he starts the engine his glances back up, staring Buck in the eye. “I mean it, Barnes. Be careful.” His voice is rough, but instead of sounding menacing, it could almost be interpreted as concern.  
Bucky bobs his head in assent, and the engine roars to life.

\--

He doesn’t see Steve for a few days, which should be good, he’s in too deep already, but it just makes him think about the man even more. Their occasional, unintentional midnight meet-ups keep him alternately elated and full of self-loathing and it’s starting to piss Bucky off, honestly. He hasn’t given a single fuck about anyone in years, and all of a sudden he can stop thinking about his damn boss?

Fortunately, there’s a decent amount of snowfall that week so he’s kept fairly busy with shoveling and salting the walks, unsticking doors and windows, and in his downtime he makes sure to keep himself occupied. The temperature skyrocketed today though, and the relative warmth is making him jittery, hence the push-ups in his room.

When Nat knocks on the door, he doesn’t bother stopping. “Come in.”

She does, shoving the door open a little more roughly than usual, but doesn’t comment. He waits a full minute (62 push-ups) before muttering into the carpet, “You got something to say, or you just enjoying the view?”

He freezes at the response. “Can it be both?” Steve says.

Buck jumps back into a kneeling position. “Shit. Sorry. I thought you were Nat.”

“I assumed as much,” Steve murmurs, and his eyes raking across Bucky’s torso reminds him that he’s not wearing a shirt. Hopping up, he grabs his hoodie from the bed and yanks it on. Steve, on the other hand, is fully dressed, casual for once and more mouthwatering than usual in jeans and a leather jacket.

“Did you need something?”

At that, Steve’s posture goes a little concave as he shoves his hands in his pockets. “I was, uh.” He pauses, looking surprised at himself, the resigned, then ambivalent as he says, “I was wondering if you wanted to take the bikes out. With me.”

“Really?” Bucky’s aware that his voice just rocketed embarrassingly high, but he can’t be bothered. He’s too damn excited.

“Really,” Steve replies with a small smile, almost relieved, which is impossible, but it’s that little twitch of the corners of his mouth that has Bucky throwing open his closet to look for his jeans.

“Yes! I’d love to. I should change though – what?”

Steve is frowning into the closet over Bucky’s shoulder.

“Where’s all your stuff?”

“Stuff?”

“Clothes, shoes…”

Bucky huffs a bitter laugh. “Rogers. What you see is what I got.” One pair of jeans, two tees, and a sweater folded neatly on a shelf. He’s feeling less defensive than he would’ve thought, but he still adds, “Not all of us are rolling in dough.”

“I didn’t – I wasn’t –“ It’s the second time in as many minutes that Rogers gets tongue-tied and Bucky feels weirdly guilty.

“Don’t worry about it man. I got enough. Lemme change, and I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Steve looks like he wants to say something else, but acquiesces, closing the door softly behind him. Bucky layers the clothes he has and bounds down the stairs, throwing open the drapes at the top of the stairs for the third time that day. Who the fuck keeps closing them?

“Where’s your coat?” Steve asks, not looking up from his phone.

“I don’t have one,” Bucky grumbles. “Didn’t we literally just talk about this?”

“You don’t have a – what have you been wearing to work outside?”

“Uh, this?” He holds out his arms to show the hoodie with the sweater underneath.

“Barnes, it’s the ass end of _winter_.”

“Oh, is that why there’s all that snow on the ground?”

Steve crosses to him quickly and for a second Bucky wonders if he’s going to yell, but he pauses instead, distractingly close. Staring Buck in the eye Steve tugs at his sleeves, allowing the leather jacket to fall from his shoulders. “Here,” he says, handing it over.

“Wh - really?” Bucky murmurs, taking it. “Thanks.” It’s still cozy from Steve’s body as he slides it on, reminding him of a warm bath, but better because it smells like leather and cologne and he can’t help but sigh. When he opens his eyes, Steve has his bottom lip caught between his teeth and his eyes are strangely bright. “What?”

“Nothing,” Steve mutters, grabbing another jacket from the hook by the door to the garage. “Let’s go.”

In the basement, the both take down helmets and gloves from the shelves, and Steve hands over the keys.

“Are you sure about this, Rogers?”

“Are you a good driver, Barnes?”

“Yes, sir,” he says purposefully just to watch Steve squirm. It works like a charm.

“Then don’t crash my bike and we’ll be fine.”

“Aye, aye captain.” That moniker, on the other hand, makes Steve frown, but then they start the engines and Steve opens the garage door remotely, and before he shuts the visor on his helmet he says, with the first real smile Bucky’s ever seen on him, “Try to keep up,” and shoots out the door.

Laughing into his own helmet, Bucky takes off after him.

They ride with relative caution through the neighborhood, and after pausing at the first stoplight Bucky has to make a mental note not to look too closely at Steve because he’s too fuckin’ sexy on that bike, lithe and rough, that Bucky doesn’t even notice when the light turns green.

When they hit the highway, Steve picks up speed, and Bucky matches, laughing from sheer joy. They weave through traffic a little, Steve testing Buck’s reflexes and skill level, but eventually they find a good space at the right speed and with Steve taking a slight lead, they tear out of the city.

The roads out here are clear and Bucky pulls ahead to jump a hill, gunning the bike and flying into the air. He lands the jump cleanly and rips the bike around the next corner only to hear Steve’s engine roar as he speeds past, taking the next hill at top speed. He floats for one – two – three and the bike touches back down with barely a jostle. Damn.

They race neck and neck, pulling back only long enough to give the other space to land safely, for hours. They’re contrastingly matched: Steve lands his jumps more comfortably but Bucky’s handling of the machine on the ground is flawless, as if the purring metal were an extension of his own body. They’re watching each other too, clearly trying to learn, though Bucky spends an equal amount of time struggling to breathe at the sight of slim hips wrapped in denim and the flush of Steve’s face when they pause. They ride until the daylight starts to wane, and Steve skids to a stop, pulling off his helmet. Bucky loops back and joins him.

“How ya doin’ there, Barnes?” he shouts, and he looks glorious, pink-cheeked and wild.

“I’m having a great time kicking your ass!”

“Fuck off,” Steve laughs.

Bucky knows he’s staring, but seeing Steve laugh, honestly laugh, head thrown back and clutching at his chest, has him breathless and awed. “What are you lookin at?”

“N-nothing,” he stammers, suddenly shy and Steve shrugs as he starts to put his helmet back on.

“Rogers!” Buck calls, and Steve pauses.

“What?”

His voice doesn’t come out quite as strong as he’d like, but the words form, regardless. “Thank you. For this.”

Steve smiles again, and says softly Bucky almost misses it, “My pleasure.”

The return trip flies by, much to Bucky’s chagrin. He’s not ready to lose this laughing, bright-eyed version of Steve, who smiles and stares at him for just moments too long, and he’s afraid when then get back to the house, everything will shift back to normal, to guarded words and expressionless faces.

As they hang up their gear Steve asks, “Where’d you learn to ride?”

“Uh…I was a mechanic for a while, and later one of my roommates was really into BMX biking, so I went with him a few times.”  
Contemplatively, Steve murmurs, “Mechanic? I thought...What other jobs have you had?”

Buck blushes and makes sure to edit out some of the less savory ones. “Food service, construction, was a bouncer for a while...I dunno. Little bit of everything.”

“Nothing ever stuck?”

Bucky shakes his head, following Steve up the stairs from the garage. “I’m not much of a stay-in-one-place kind of a guy. Or I wasn’t. I’m not sure now.”

“What changed?”

“Oh,” Bucky murmurs they emerge into the kitchen. “Everything.”

Steve huffs, face already less open than out on the road. “Care to be more specific?”

“I –“

He tries. He really does. He tries so hard to rally a list of the things that have changed in the last few months alone that he accidentally dredges up more than he bargained for, nights spent puking in the shower, weeks of sleepless nights and manic days that blend together, good highs and bad, and Bucky finds that he’s curling in, crossing his arms to cover himself.

Steve shouldn’t be around him. Steve is kind and giving and has a golden laugh. He’s rich and most likely straight. He probably doesn’t even know any (other) drug addicts, recovered or otherwise, though he looks with gentle concern at Buck’s posture and almost looks like he’s going to extend a hand..

Steve deserves better.

Stumbling backward, Bucky catches himself on the counter. “I can’t…”

And there it goes, Steve’s face sliding into blankness, cool and removed and Bucky wishes so fucking badly he could still do that, still escape, but these days he’s a goddamn raw nerve. A sad little sound creeps from his throat, and Steve’s eyebrows twitch up and if Bucky hadn’t run, he might have seen how Steve reaches for him, but he doesn’t stay.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO MANY THINGS happen in this chapter, so be aware: Bucky has flashbacks that reference very minor dub-con and quite a bit of drug use. How ever, there is also happy sexy times at the end of the chapter, so, there's that too.

Steve doesn’t ask for his coat back, so Bucky doesn’t return it. In fact, he wears it as much as possible that next week, tucking his nose into the collar and breathing deeply. It helps him pretend Steve isn’t avoiding him.

No more middle of the night snacks, no more joyrides. They barely see each other in passing and when they do, Bucky smiles but Steve doesn’t even look at him, which is why it takes him more than a few minutes of staring open-mouthed into his closet, now full of clothing, to figure out what’s going on. He trails his fingers across the denim of half a dozen pairs of jeans. Sweaters of every color swing from brass hangers, and a few button ups. Work boots and pair of brown leather shoes. All his size, and all somehow, impossibly, his taste.

He calls Natasha.

“Romanoff,” she answers.

“Natasha.”

“Oh no. What happened?”

“Care to explain the mystery clothes in my closet?”

“Oh.” She sounds relieved. “No, not particularly.”

“Did you buy them?”

“No.”

“Did you have anything to do with their selection?”

“I may have given some suggestions. You like them?”

“Love ‘em,” he breathes, trying not to get overly emotional about the goddamn contents of his closet. “Thank Steve for me will you?” It’s a ploy, to confirm his suspicions but also to ferret out whether Steve is planning on ever speaking to him again.

Nat probably sees through it, but she gives him an answer anyway. “Tell him yourself.”

His chest is tight, full of more feeling than he knows what to do with, so he hangs up and starts slowly for the door.

Steve bought him clothes. Steve figured out his taste, what size he is, and bought things he thought Buck would like. Even though Bucky’s weird. Even though he’s awkward and ineloquent at the best of times. His feet pick up pace until he’s jogging down the hall hollering, “Rogers! Hey! Rogers!”

Steve emerges from his office, frowning. Instead of slowing down Bucky just opens his arms and slams into the guy, hugging him as Steve makes a tiny noise of surprise.

“Thank you,” he says into Steve’s chest. “I can’t even…Thank you. So much.”  
The body beneath his cheek relaxes from its frozen posture and strong arms return his embrace hesitantly. Warm breath tousles his hair as Steve says, “You’re welcome.”

Pulling back a little Bucky blurts, “I’m sorry about before. I wasn’t-“ he doesn’t know how to say it, and gives up. “Fuck. Sorry. K. I’m gonna go. Just, thank you. I don’t deserve it, and you’ve been more than generous…” He trails off, turns to go but a large, calloused hand grips his wrist firmly.

“Barnes.” Never James or Bucky, but his eyes bely a fondness that Bucky doesn’t dare believe. “Don’t say that shit. You deserve it.”

Bucky swallows hard and bobs his head as Steve lets go. And then, because his mouth apparently has a mind of its own he steps back into Steve’s space and says quickly, “Have dinner with us.”

Eyebrow quirk, somehow simultaneously severe and amused. “Us?”

“Me and Nat. We’re making dinner tonight, around 6. You should come. Make sure we don’t burn the place down,” he adds with a grin.

Steve’s not stepping away and he muses with that tiny almost-smile, “We wouldn’t want that.”

“So you’ll come?”

“I might.”

He doesn’t tell Nat because if Steve doesn’t show, which is totally possible, Bucky’d rather deal with that loss internally than have it picked apart by the person who knows him best in the world. It’d probably be a good thing, but he’s feeling pretty vulnerable already.

“I can’t believe you’re actually going to eat a vegetable,” Nat murmurs.

“Hey, I like vegetables,” Bucky protests, stirring the potatoes.

“I’m sorry, but eating celery sticks with Nutella doesn’t count.”

“Come on, why not?”

He feels the bony part of one wing poke him in the ribs. “I can’t even dignify that with an answer.”

The zucchini and garlic still need to be cut and the salad prepared, but the potatoes are sizzling on the stove and the chicken is done, in the oven to keep warm but also because Bucky “sampled” an entire drumstick, so he’s on chicken probation until they sit down to eat.

It’s almost seven, and Natasha catches Bucky looking at the clock in between slicing tomatoes, but doesn’t mention it. It’s alright. They’re both in a good mood from the day, lots to talk about, and he wasn’t really expecting Steve to come anyway. He’s fine with it. He just needs a distraction.  
With Natasha safely focused on ripping the lettuce for the salad, Bucky opens the oven to steal another bite of chicken.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

“What?” he asks, whipping around.

“Don’t you ‘what’ me, Bucky Barnes.”

“What?” he drawls, and reaches a hand behind him into the cracked oven door.

“You fucker.” As she pounces with a grin he yanks the other drumstick out and takes a bite, dodging out of the way.

His shirt slips through Nat’s fingers as he hops over a chair then slides across the table. She launches herself over, tackling him into the counter and pinning him there with limbs and wings, and since he can’t move without hurting her he just holds the drumstick aloft, out of her reach.

She jumps, slaps him in the chest and jumps again. “Ow! Shit woman!”

“You’re such a - ” She pauses, eyes wide as Bucky feels the chicken leave his hand and he looks over to see Steve, eyes twinkling, drumstick in hand.

“Rogers?” Nat says incredulously.

He takes a bite and crosses to the far counter. “Can I help with anything?”

He came. Impossibly. Bucky’d asked and here he is and Buck’s so happy he's pretty sure his heart is beating out of his chest. 

Nat is apparently shocked into silence, but the words jump from Bucky’s mouth. “Zucchini needs to be cut,” he says, and fetches another cutting board and knife for Steve. “And garlic.” And suddenly he’s so nervous he can barely see as the reality of the situation begins to sink in, so he goes back to chopping green peppers for the salad, but Steve calmly slides his cutting board into place next to Bucky’s, shoulder to shoulder, and gets to work.

The silence is damn near killing Buck and he fishes around for something, anything to talk about and Natasha’s no help, her eyebrows are going to get stuck in her hairline if she doesn’t change her damn expression soon. A splash of reddish purple bruise on Steve’s palm draws his attention.

“Shit, what happened to your hand?”

“Oh, nothing. Tripped. Fell in the garden.” He frowns at it, as if the accident were a personal offense.

“Sucks, man. Hey, I saw a sweet bike on my run today.”

“Yeah?” Steve murmurs. “What kind?”

Bucky slides the diced peppers into a bowl. “Old School Motorcycle Company. Dumb name, great bikes. Iconic styles, but the hardware is modernized, more reliable. The one I saw today was a classic, based off a model from like 1941, Knucklehead motor, retrofitted mechanical brakes, kick start, but it’s all new, customized, some of the kinks worked out.”

“That’s amazing,” Steve murmurs, chopping with the ease of someone who food preps regularly, reminding Buck of some of the chefs he’d worked with. “Where are they based?”

“All the way in fuckin’ Vancouver. Figures. Although some of those customizations wouldn’t be too hard…”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Ok, the brakes would be a piece of cake, the kick start is already included on most bikes…Granted it might take me some time to build a Knucklehead, Shovelhead was the furthest back I ever really worked on…”

“I’ve got some experience with the Knucklehead, Flathead too…You’d pick it up quick.” Flathead is an old ass piece of equipment. Buck wonders where, not to mention _when_ Steve would’ve ever had access to one of those. 

“I’d love to poke around one of those earlier motors, the progression is fascinating. Too bad we let Germany and Japan have all the fun with mechanical engineering.”

Steve huffs. “Not always.” He looks profoundly sad for a moment, and impossibly far away and Bucky aches to bring him back, but has no idea how. Steve takes care of it for him.“I gotta say, between the lemonade powder and the condensed milk sandwiches, I was kind of expecting something crazy for dinner.”

Natasha interjects, “James is a good cook, he’s just a damn weirdo.”

“Hey,” Buck protests.

“Well you are. You make the best pasta sauce I’ve ever had but you would rather eat broccoli with cheetos on it.”

“It’s delicious!”

“How old are you?”

“Shut up,” he snarks and sticks out a foot to poke at her since his hands are occupied.

“Twenty five going on twelve?”

“At least I’m not eighty years old, Ms. Straight-scotch-chain-smoking-card-shark-from-hell.”

“You can’t hold that against me, I was fourteen years old.”

“My point exactly!”

“Where did you two meet?” Steve is chuckling, glancing guardedly between them. Nat and Bucky fall quiet, staring at one another. She gives him the go ahead, so in a desperate grasp at what Buck thinks normal friendships might be like, he shares. “We lived in the same group home after our parents were killed. We were the lucky ones.”

“Lucky?” Steve growls, frowning.

“Other kids we lived with are dead. Or worse.”

Steve’s face clears of the storm clouds and he nods, slowly. “I see.”

It breaks Bucky’s heart that Steve understands, but he doesn’t have time to respond because Nat’s phone rings on the counter and it’s Sam’s name on the caller ID. She sees that he notices and smacks his arm hard enough to hurt muttering, “I don’t wanna hear it,” and walks out of the room to answer.

“The hell was that about?” Steve murmurs, sliding the garlic into a pan.

“Cute guy. Nat’s ultimate weakness.”

“I dunno, she seems to do pretty well around them.”

Bucky tosses a piece of potato into his mouth. “Yeah, but she actually likes this one.”

“Are they dating?” Steve’s voice is soft, but Bucky can’t look up from measuring oil for the salad dressing, so he’s not sure of the emotion that accompanies it.

“Nah. I think they both want to, but…”

“But...”

Bucky finally glances to where Nat’s talking in the hall. “Between you and me? I think she’s scared.”

“Of what?” Steve’s suddenly very interested in the sauteing garlic.

He sighs. “Nothin’s been very...stable in our lives. She deals with that by being her own stability. Doesn’t let anyone in.”

“Except you,” Steve corrects and Bucky smiles.

“Like I said: Lucky.”

“How do _you_ deal?”

Oh hell no, they are not having this conversation right now, so he takes the easy out, the smallest, least dangerous truth. It still comes out stilted and rough. “Running.”

“Races?”

He shakes his head. Can’t quite lie. “No. Away.”

His tone effectively ends the conversation, but Steve stays the whole meal, helping finish prep and chatting amiably through dinner, smiling fondly when Nat and Buck get carried away in one of their sibling-like arguments, discussing an art exhibit Nat had visited, asking about Bucky’s upcoming projects, and it doesn’t seem like an act. He seems genuinely interested, and when he has to head to his office for a conference call, he looks disappointed.

Nat gives Buck a knowing look as they part ways in the hall, but doesn’t comment, and he’s so hyped up that he spends hours surfing the internet, doing walking lunges across his room, and when he looks out the window he sees movement in the garden.

It’s dark, but he’d know that silhouette anywhere. No wonder Steve had tripped, it’s pitch-black out there. Bucky’s so full of energy that when the idea comes to him, he doesn’t think twice, just does his research, makes the plan, and buys the supplies that very night.

\--

“Barnes!” Bucky hears the footsteps all the way down the other hall.

“What?” He pokes his head out of the library, and Steve, who’s heading towards his bedroom, turns on his heel and stalks back towards Buck. It’s dim in the hallway, but Buck can tell Steve’s face is a little red, and though it’s mostly expressionless, his jaw is clenched so tightly it shifts tiny muscles there.

Bucky backs into the wall in spite of himself.

“Why,” Steve grinds out. “Are there _lights_ in the garden?”

It had been quite an adventure staying up all night to string the old-fashioned outdoor bulbs in zigzags across the garden, but the mania of the previous night has mostly worn off throughout the work day, which leaves plenty of room for nervousness to creep in. “You tripped...hurt yourself...It’s dark as fuck out there at night...I thought -”

“No. You didn’t think,” Steve interrupts, low and dangerous. “If you’d _thought_ , you’d have remembered that no alterations are to be made to the garden. For any reason.”

“I’m sorry, I just -”

“If you’d _thought_ , you’d know that it’s off limits to any and all _employees_.” The word is dripping with disdain. “You think you’re above that, Barnes?”

“No,” Bucky whispers, too horrified to discern how much of Steve’s anger is actually agony.

“I should fire your ass. Supposed to be some kind of genius jack-of-all-trades and you can’t even follow the simplest of instructions…” He’s muttering to himself at this point, but refocuses long enough to say, “Stay the fuck away from my shit. You gotta learn your place.”

His place. Ha. For a second, he’d almost managed to forget.

Steve’s momentum carries him into his office so forcefully the door shakes the surrounding walls leaving Bucky dangerously unsupervised in the hall with two choices, and one would undermine two and a half long months of sobriety, so he goes with the other. He’s dressed for work, boots and jeans and sweatshirt, but at this point it doesn’t matter. Slipping away from the wall he jumps down the entire flight of stairs before sprinting out the door.

He knows exactly how much whiskey it would take to get him numb and tries not to think through those measurements, instead focusing on the steady beat of his feet on the pavement. He did this to himself.

The look on Steve’s face, dismissive and cold, hurts more than anything else, but Buck should’ve known. 

He’d known last night that the lights were a bad idea but it was tucked so far back in his head, and he was worried about the dark, didn’t want Steve getting hurt again, wanted give him something to smile about.

He runs until Steve’s anger is absorbed by his own self-loathing, which is still pain but at least it’s familiar. He runs until his feet are aching and he’s so hungry the edges of his vision white out. It’s been dark for hours. And then, a few blocks from the house, it hits.

The tsunami of memory literally knocks him off his feet and he falls so hard that his jeans tear open over the knees. It’s the real deal, not a little taste like those other swells of recollection that jarred him into a bad mood for a few hours.

It can’t possibly be the same Empath that killed his family, the guy’s been in jail for years, but it feels the same, the heat, the pain…

He pukes into the street then staggers upright. He's in Steve's neighborhood, he knows that, but it's not what he's seeing.

He’s looking into the past, a vision clear as day; Not too far back, maybe six months. A fifth of cheap whiskey, and some coke he'd strong armed off some kid. Dancing, lit as hell and weightless. In the back of his mind it registers that tomorrow morning will be particularly rough, but he can’t bring himself to care.

A little further back. He’s sick, but not enough to warrant the amount of cold medicine he’s consumed. The guy he’s blowing in the bathroom keeps fucking his face and it’s usually his favorite thing in the world but the meds are making everything swim and it’s hard to catch his breath. He tries to pull off, tap out, but the guy doesn’t even even acknowledge him. Thankfully he finishes quickly, leaving Buck gasping on the tile for a few minutes before he gets up and wanders out to order another drink.

Earlier still, and his body is stumbling up the walk to Steve’s house but his in his mind he’s seventeen, terrified, doesn’t like heights but construction pays too well to turn down. The other guys don’t understand how he’s so strong and the manager is pretty sure he’s lying about his age but they keep him because he’s damn useful. It ends up being one of the better gigs because he tries to arrive sober-ish in the morning for safety reasons, none of that last-night-still-drunk, just few hits from the bowl he and his roommates keep on the coffee table. Every once in awhile, on long mornings, he’d be sober for almost a whole hour after the weed wears off and before he can sneak away.

The next wave is bad, as he stumbles through the door. He’s fourteen, just arrived at the group home, still small and gangly and everyone knows. He’s a freak.

He didn’t talk for almost a year. Nat was the only one who even bothered with him, bringing him food sometimes, and sitting at the end of his bed, doing her homework in silence.

She’s the first one he tells. The only one.

Tells her the Empath came for his dad, and Buck and his ma got in the way. Tells her that he tried so hard to keep the guy from hurting them, from wringing the life out of them as they stood motionless, locked in their own minds. 

The Empath couldn’t physically match Bucky’s strength, kept threatening a long and grueling punishment, a slow death if he didn’t behave, and Bucky hadn’t listened, but the killer kept his word. He reached into Buck’s mind and incapacitated him for just long enough, restrained him, made him watch as his parents were killed, but that was nothing compared to the punishment, the of looping that memory, forcing Buck to relive the worst moment of his life over and over and over and over. When the SWAT team found him the next day they thought he was dead.

He wished.

“Barnes?” Steve’s voice floats cautiously from the kitchen table.

“Need a drink,” he mumbles, images ebbing and fading from his vision. He does. He can’t do this sober. Not again. “Where’d Nat put it?”

“Put it?” he echoes.

“Where’d Nat hide the booze?”

Steve speaks slowly. “Why did she hide it?”

“The fuck do you care?” Bad idea, Buck. He’s your boss. Not a friend, and certainly not more. He’d made that clear.

“Barnes-”

He snaps. “I’m a fucking addict, ok? You were right, I’m supposed to be a fucking genius, but I’m just some coked-up alcoholic on a sober vacation and it’s over. So where. Is. The. Booze.”  
Steve stands from the table and moves towards him and if Bucky were smart he’d heed the fire in his eyes, but he’s too far gone.

“No,” Steve growls.

“No? The fuck do you mean, no?”

“No, I’m not helping you relapse.”

Seething, he stalks out the room. “Fine. I’ll get my own.”

He makes it up the stairs to get his wallet before Steve catches up. “James.”

“Fuck off.”

“James.”

“Stop calling me that! My name is Bucky!”

There’s a gasp from behind him, but he doesn’t care until a pair of strong arms circle him, tighter than he thinks should be possible. “Bucky. Stop.”

The warmth at his back is the only that actually makes him want to, but it’s not enough. “Let go.”

“No.”

“ _Rogers_. Fucking let go! I don’t want to hurt you.” The weight around him doesn’t move, but Buck somehow captures the presence of mind to move slowly; at least this way he won’t hurt anyone, except for some reason, his body’s not moving. He tries again to lift his arms, clenching his fists, but Steve doesn't budge, in fact the pressure increases across Buck’s chest. What the fuck?

Steve is impossibly strong, only starting to tremble when Bucky pushes as hard as he can, and when that doesn’t work, he slumps against Steve’s chest, letting him support the weight. Steve’s heart is beating against his back, warm breath on his neck and he _wants_ oh god, wants to let go, wants this to be real, and it _aches_. 

Buck lets his knees collapse, freeing himself, and takes off down the hall at a dead run. As he goes to slam his bedroom door, Steve’s hand shoots out and catches it so firmly the door quivers on either side of his hand.

Bucky shoves him back angrily. “What the fuck?”

Steve shrugs. “You’re not the only exceptional person in this house.

“Exceptional. Yeah, right,” he then catches sight of the clock on his bedside table. It’s so late. “Why are you still up?”

Steve’s standing in the doorway, blocking Buck’s exit, but his shoulders curl in a little before he puffs up, straightening to look Bucky in the eye.

“I needed to talk to you.”

“Oh great,” Bucky mutters, turning away to dig through his crap for his wallet and when he can’t find it, spins back to growl at Steve. “Wanna tell me a few more ways I’m beneath you? Not good enough? We’ll now you’ve got even more ammunition, Rogers! Go for it!”

Steve flinches. “I wanted to apologize.”

Bucky freezes for the first time in hours, truly caught off guard. “What?”

“What I said was inexcusable. You didn’t deserve it, and that’s not how I think of you.”

He still needs a drink so badly his ears are ringing, but for the moment at least the shock of the comment roots his mind and body firmly in reality. An apology. 

“It’s…” Swallowing hard he waves vaguely. He's not sure what to say, angry and confused but he hates confrontation and despises the look of sadness in Steve's face. It makes him profoundly uncomfortable, and also, for some reason, excruciatingly sad. “It’s fine.”

“You don’t have to do that, Buck.” He sounds exasperated but Buck gets the impression it's with himself. “I was wrong, and I’m sorry.” He’s gnawing his lip raw but stops long enough to mutter, “Will you stay?”  
Bucky sighs shakily. The overwhelming waves of emotion have subsided enough that he can breathe again. He’s not ok, but it’s better than before. 

Don't be an idiot, Buck, he thinks. You don't really want to go to a bar… He thinks of the disappointment on Nat’s face, on Steve's, and inhales so deeply his back cracks before letting it out again. 

“Yeah, I’ll stay. I don’t even know where my ID is.”

“What? I meant here. At this job.”

He blinks incredulously. “Rogers. Of course I’m staying.”

Impossibly hopeful, Steve steps forward. “Even after what I said?”

“To be fair, you didn’t say anything untrue.”

Steve crosses to Bucky in long strides, kinetic energy crackling in every step. “Stop it,” he whispers fiercely. 

“You’re…”

It’s not the time, and Steve's his boss, but Buck can’t help but glance at Steve’s mouth, can’t help but imagine what it would feel like on him, his neck, his stomach, his cock, and probably because he’s so completely exhausted, the tiniest moan creeps into his throat. He catches it there, thank god, and turns away quickly before he can witness Steve’s reaction so all he hears is the sigh, then hesitantly, “You gonna be ok?”

“Of course.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

He does, but his head is a mess. He kind of want to cry and definitely wants to fuck and none of that is appropriate, so he shakes his head.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Lemme give you my number then, in case you need something.” Steve’s mother-henning makes Bucky smile in spite of himself.

“Fine.”

“Ready? Ok 212 -” Bucky types. “555-” Tap-tap-tap. “01.” Bucky freezes. “99.”

The phone slips from his fingers. “Buck?”

“You’re…” He turns back slowly. “Him.”

“Him?” Steve looks confused, but not confused enough, like maybe he’d recognized Buck already. There’s no way to explain, so he just pulls the receipt that Steve had written on so many years ago, plastic baggy and all, from his pocket and shoves it into his hands.

Steve stares at it, frozen, for so long that Bucky wonders if maybe he’s fucked something up real bad but finally Steve mutters, “You kept it.”

“‘Course I did.”

“You never called.”

Buck shakes his head. “Didn’t want to be a nuisance.”

“Asking for help doesn’t make you a nuisance!”

“Yeah,” Buck huffs bitterly, wrapping his arms around himself. “You ever follow your own advice?”  
Steve just smiles wryly. “Not really, no.” The self-depreciation is an expression of vulnerability and Buck knows from experience how much that shit costs, but Steve isn’t done. “Was it me? Did I set you off?”

“No.” Maybe he replies too quickly because Steve frowns, dubious, so he tries again, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. “I felt the Empath who killed my parents. Felt him, saw things in my head I haven’t thought about in years…”

“I’m so sorry,” Steve breathes but Bucky just shrugs, attempting to distance himself. The conversation is drawing to a close; he might as well brace himself for a sleepless night and waves of cravings. He wants Steve to take care of him, but that’s not the nature of their relationship and Buck needs to learn how to handle the feeling. “Anyway. It’s fine. Sorry about…” He gestures ambiguously. “All of this.”

“Bucky.” Steve sounds horrified. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure you love it when your employees fuck up your property and then have a mental breakdown when you try to discuss it.”

“Stop with the employee bullshit, Buck. I told you that’s not how this is.”

“Then how is it?” His voice is too loud.

He can tell there are a million thoughts caught in Steve’s throat. He looks nervous and confused and frustrated and Bucky’s a heartbeat away from telling him to forget it but then Steve does the very last thing he expects and grabs his hand, pulling him out of the bedroom and down to the kitchen.

Buck watches cautiously as Steve dumps several ingredients into a mug, something that looks like cocoa powder and...oatmeal? His questions, about the food and the situation, fade as he watches the muscles of Steve’s back shift under the soft lavender of his button up shirt, the breadth of his hands, the thought of what they would feel like in his hair, around his throat…

And maybe Steve wants something more. A friendship most likely, and why not? They get along well, they have shared interests, they’re similar in age...but how is that possible? Steve doesn’t look a day over 25 but he’d been grown and rescuing people ten years ago when Bucky’d needed saving.

“How old are you?”

“Old,” Steve answers shortly with a roll of his shoulders.

“Like...forty?”

“Almost a hundred.”

“What?”

He deposits the mug into the microwave and wipes his hands on his pockets before asking softly, “You were born with your abilities?” Bucky nods, and Steve goes on. “I wasn’t. Opposite, in fact. I was sick all the time, skinny as hell...Joined the military as part of an experiment to create better soldiers for World War II. It worked.”

“Oh.” The facts are simple, not hard to imagine or believe in context of the wonders of the modern world. The accompanying details are another issue entirely, like the fact that all of Steve’s family must be dead. Or that he must’ve seen so many wars, so many governments, so many people topple and fall. Yet here he is, gorgeous and intimidating, making Bucky a snack that smells like peanut butter.

“ _Oh?_ ” Steve repeats incredulously but Bucky just shrugs and offers him a small smile. 

The microwave pings, interrupting, prompting Steve to rescue the steaming mug and hand it over. Buck grins at him, taking a bite. “Damn, that’s good. What is it?”

Shuffling his feet, Steve mutters, “My ...uh...not this exact recipe, food sucked back then, I changed it some… but my ma used to make this when I had a bad day. Thought maybe it’d work for you, too.”

His ma’s recipe, who’s been gone for god knows how many years, and he made it for Bucky, a fucked up kid he barely knows. 

Self-control is not something Bucky excels at, maybe he’s used it all up on maintaining sobriety, but regardless of the reason he demonstrates this truth brilliantly by lunging out of the chair and kissing his boss.

Steve makes a surprised noise but immediately winds strong arms around Buck’s back, holding him close, licking into his mouth. It’s mutually desperate, much to Bucky’s relief, though hard for him to believe.  
Strong hands cup Bucky’s face to kiss him more deeply, and it feels intimate in a way Buck had forgotten existed after years of clubs and sex under the influence. Connection. Safety.

Steve is silent except for heavy breaths drawn through his nose, but Bucky can’t help the tiny whimper that escapes. In response Steve slams him into the counter and pushes his knee between Bucky’s thighs, rolling himself into place along Bucky’s cock.

“Fuck,” Bucky pants. 

Steve’s eyes darken and he repeats the motion with a wicked grin, pinning him in place. 

It’s almost too good. Bucky’s head is swimming with something terrifyingly, awe-inspiringly close to subspace and he’s hard as a rock against his zipper. He rakes his hands down Steve’s back as they kiss, digging his fingertips into the muscles there, and the other man growls in the back of his throat, echoing in their mouths before roughly pulling Buck’s head to one side and biting along his throat. In response he yanks Steve’s hips against him again, begging for friction, and Steve’s breath catches in the best way.

That little sound is so disarming, the closest thing to vulnerability Buck knows he’s going to get, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting more. He brushes questioning fingertips along Steve’s collar, who nods affirmative permission without taking his eyes from Bucky’s face. His day-to-day aloofness doesn’t fool Bucky, not one bit, Buck knows there’s a glorious, cocky, kind, laughing personality hidden beneath the hurt, the distance, the fear, but Steve keeps that part of himself close by keeping himself removed. It makes the attention feel like heaven, being seen after years of going invisible, being found after years of wandering.

He gets the top few buttons undone, and though there’s an undershirt covering most of Steve’s torso, Bucky leans up, biting gently along his collarbone. Steve’s fingers tighten on his hips so Buck continues up his neck to his jaw before Steve impatiently turns and catches his mouth again, earning a little grumble from Buck, but he _swears_ he feels Steve smile against his lips.

It’s that. That smile. That’s what gets him.

“I…please...want you...can I?” Buck gasps. 

Steve inhales deeply, red mouth and pink cheeks and the impossibly dark flash of his eyes. He looks eager and elated and aroused and hesitant at the same time and Bucky wants him so fucking badly. “Steve. Please.”

It’s the first time he’s ever called him anything but Rogers or Sir and it’s effective as hell because at the sound of his name tumbling off Bucky’s tongue Steve makes his first real noise since they kissed, a beautiful, deep groan and he nods once, just a little bob of head and Bucky sinks to his knees, so eager it takes longer than it should to get Steve’s belt undone. Steve. Here in front of him. Kissing him back. 

It's overwhelming, briefly too much, and Buck defaults to give himself time to think, sitting back on his heels, setting his hands on his knees in an unconscious gesture of submission, and glancing up.  
Steve notices, and whether consciously or not, responds in kind, straightening his posture and spreading his legs minutely, steadying his stance, and just the posture has Buck hardening in his jeans. Standing strong, he quirks a brow, a silent “Is this what you want?” and Bucky nods, mouth going dry.

Time freezes as they acknowledge the weight of the unspoken agreement, and Bucky feels the dip in his stomach that happens right before a fall or making a promise you can never break. He recognizes in that moment that every previous Dom, every club, every experiment before this was just practice, a prequel that will never hold a candle to this, no matter how badly it ends. 

“Tell me your color,” Steve commands, voice dropping and settling at the base of Buck’s spine.

“Green,” Bucky breathes.

“Good. Hands behind your back.”

Bucky complies immediately, locking one hand around the opposite wrist and even just that gesture relaxes him. “Good,” Steve repeats, impressed and pleased then yanks Buck’s head back to bend and kiss him roughly.

He’s probably expected to be quiet, but Bucky can’t help himself and he groans as Steve buries his cock deep in Bucky's throat, tilts his head back at the sensation, breath coming rougher, and it make Buck lightheaded with power.

Steve goes easy on him, doesn’t let him all the way down the first few passes and Bucky appreciates the considerate sentiment, but it’s unnecessary, he wants this, so he finally risks punishment by pulling himself forward against the fist in his hair until his nose is brushing Steve’s stomach. “Shit, Buck. Christ,” he groans, hips twitching, and relaxes his hand a little, allowing Bucky to take over.

Immediately he picks up speed, hands remaining clenched behind him. Steve is heavy velvet on his tongue, and Buck swallows him down again and again until he can feel the slightest trembling in Steve’s knees. Breathing isn’t much of an issue, but eventually he has to pull off with a pop and collapse forward, pressing his forehead into Steve’s hip and gasping in the scent of him, linen and clean sweat. Heaven. Steve jacks his cock slowly with one hand while Buck catches his breath before nosing his way back to lick at Steve’s balls, begging to taste him again. Steve obliges with a shudder.

This is something Buck has always genuinely loved. It’s difficult being a sub with trust issues, and rarely does he allow himself the indulgence of truly sinking under, but a good face-fucking can get him pretty close. Steve is holding out remarkably well, Buck thinks as he sinks down and holds himself there for a long moment, smiling into the way Steve’s hips twitch again and there’s the slightest hitch of breath, and he glances up.

Steve is staring down at him, wide-eyed and flushed and his bottom lip is red and shiny from here it’s been caught between his teeth. Every muscle in his torso is tense and he’s white-knuckling the counter, a moment from breaking apart and Bucky hadn’t even realized because he’s been so fucking silent. Open-mouthed and soundless, Steve withdraws in a hurry, slicking quick strokes over his cock and sliding a thumb into Bucky’s mouth, pressing down on his tongue. It feels good but Buck realizes that Steve’s about to come and that finger is supposed to be a substitute, like that’ll somehow replace the feeling of Steve coming hot and hard down his throat.

He whines and bites down on the finger just a little.

“What?” Steve pants.

“Want you.” Buck sounds impossibly fucked out. “Please.”

“I’m gonna come,” he warns, shaking his head, but Bucky just repeats, “Please.”

Bucky misses the moment Steve breaks, doesn’t see the look on his face, but suddenly Steve’s got him by the back of the head, pushing down until he’s completely buried in Bucky’s throat, rolling his hips once, twice and then he hisses as his whole body locks up. Bucky gags a little, a tear escaping his eye, but it’s good, he’s green, so, so green, floating, and when Steve pulls off Buck licks softly at his cock, catching the last few drops.

“Buck,” he sighs, tilting Bucky’s chin up with a gentle finger. “That...you're incredible.” 

Even as far under as he is, Bucky can’t help but huff incredulously and Steve frowns at the sound. “Stand up.”

Bucky complies, of course, and waits patiently while Steve zips himself back up. It’s been so long since he’s gone under, but he feels safe. Vaguely in the back of his mind, he’s a little worried about subdrop, but it’s faint enough that he can refocus on Steve when he brushes the wetness from Buck’s cheek with a thumb

“Was that too much?” he asks, concerned, and Bucky shakes his head adamantly.

“No. That was…perfect.”

“Color?”

“Very green.”

Steve smiles beautifully. “Good. You’re amazing.” Bucky laughs aloud at that one, pleased and disbelieving simultaneously, making Steve lurch into Bucky’s space abruptly and growl, “Get the food and follow me.”

Surprised more than anything else, Bucky complies as Steve leads them to Bucky’s bedroom. He takes the food and sets it on the bedside table before tugging Buck by the hand into the bathroom. After getting the water started, Steve turns to him, face kind but impassive, and with exquisite gentleness gathers the fabric of Bucky’s sweater and pulls it up over his head.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Buck whispers and Steve quirks a brow.

“Color?”

“Green.”

“Then quiet.”

He shoves Bucky gently onto the closed lid of the toilet and pulls off his shoes, socks, and finally pants and boxers all together. It should be unnerving to be completely naked next to Steve who’s not only fully dressed, but well-dressed at that. Instead it just calms him, especially when Steve puts a firm hand to the back of his neck, steady and sure.

Bucky heaves a full body sigh when he slides into the water, letting the warmth relax the muscles in his back and shoulders. He’s still hard, but tries not to focus on it. Steve will decide whether he gets off or not and for the time being, Steve is supporting Bucky’s head with a hand, cool compared to the water as he shampoos then rinses the long locks of hair, raking strong fingers across his scalp.

“Feels good,” he whispers, forgetting his instructions, but Steve just smiles and tweaks one nipple hard enough to make Bucky squirm.

“I’m glad.”

The only time Steve leaves the bathroom is to grab the mug from the bedside table, and he feeds Bucky slowly, occasionally leaning in to kiss peanut buttery chocolate from the corners of his mouth. It should feel like they’re moving too fast. They went from fighting to a mental breakdown to kitchen floor blowjobs in the span of a day, but Bucky is neither surprised nor displeased. Dubious, perhaps, that someone as incredible as Steve would be interested, but he knows he’s not bad-looking, so on an aesthetic level he supposes it makes sense.

Steve is kneeling by the edge of the tub with his shirtsleeves rolled up, but aside from the flush in his cheeks and a drop of water on his cuff he still looks completely put together. Gorgeous. Buck can’t stop thinking about it, and it’s winding him up as Steve manhandles him this way and that to wash him, sweeping his palm down Bucky’s stomach, digging knuckles into the arches of his feet then up his calves, working his way inward painfully slowly until Buck rolls his hips under the water and Steve asks, entirely too self-satisfied, “You want some help with that?”

But this time, Bucky remembers his instructions, remembers to stay silent when he nods, sweet and slow through the honeyed haze and Steve face relaxes into awe as he drags a wet thumb across Buck’s cheek and says so quiet Bucky is sure he’s dreaming, “So beautiful.” The praise reverberates through his entire body and when Steve’s wraps a hand tight around him he can’t help the gasp that escapes.

He closes his eyes, afraid he won’t last at the sight of Steve Rogers jacking him off in shirtsleeves (and really, who could blame him), so he doesn’t see how reverently Steve watches him, how the blond clenches his jaw when Buck bites his lip, misses the gentleness in the fingers that trail up and down his chest.

When Bucky comes with a sigh, every last ounce of tension leaves him, and he lets it, lets go for once. Lets someone else catch him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harley-Davidson_engine_timeline
> 
> http://www.theautochannel.com/news/2007/10/24/068401.html


	4. Chapter 4

Everything ebbs in slowly as he stretches deliciously relaxed muscles and sighs, but when something warm moves against his back, he wakes right the fuck up. As in, he’s so startled he falls out of bed.

“Buck?” Steve’s voice is sleep rough and if Bucky weren’t so freaked out, he’d be incredibly turned on. “You ok?” 

The top of his head and then his eyes peek over the edge and blink slowly down.

“Wh-what…” The lights in the garden. The run. The mug cake. The blow job. The bath…A grin starts spreading slowly across his mouth lighting up his face, and even though only a sliver of Steve’s face is showing, Bucky can tell he’s grinning back.

He springs from the floor and pounces back up onto the comforter, scrambling to straddle Steve who’s still fully clothed, if a little more rumpled than the night before. He feels effervescent, and Steve doesn’t look any better, grinning wider than Bucky’s ever seen him, breathtakingly beautiful until the balloon hits a bursting point and something in Steve’s face shifts when Buck leans down to kiss him.

Steve rolls them abruptly. He’s still smiling but it’s tighter, more like what Bucky is used to and it freezes him where he lays, boxers twisting uncomfortably against the inside of his thigh. It hurts a little, but being pinned there beneath Steve’s warm weight is an exquisite embrace and he’s loathe to move.

“We need to talk about this,” Steve murmurs and Buck swallows hard, nodding. It figures.

“Ok. Maybe… uh… breakfast.” The kitchen is neutral territory, and he can put some clothes on. Less vulnerable.

“Sure, any preferences?”

“I can make it.” He’s the employee, it just makes sense, but Steve smiles softly.

“I’ll wait for you. We’ll make it together.”

Bucky doesn’t trust his voice, so a nod will have to suffice.

What the fuck is happening? He’s pretty sure he’s not hallucinating the previous night. Was it just a one-time deal? Bucky had kissed him first, did Steve not want this? Want him? Was it the employee thing?

Steve is changed and drinking coffee over the newspaper by the time he gets downstairs. “Omelets ok?” he asks without looking up from the business section.

“Sure.” Instead of waiting, Bucky makes himself useful pulling out the eggs and beating them creamy then digging around for veggies in the fridge. He’s so busy trying to keep himself occupied that he doesn’t notice Steve behind him until warm hands settle on his hips. “Bucky.”

It feels good, anchoring, so Bucky doesn’t ask him to move, but he doesn’t turn around either.

“Would you look at me?”

The only reason Buck complies is because Steve phrased it as a question, setting them on firm and even footing. This isn’t a Dom and his sub. This is Steve and Bucky. Or maybe it’s Rogers and Barnes. And now he’s all uncertain again. He must look it, too because Steve tilts his head up with one knuckle beneath his chin so that Bucky has to look at him, has to see that Steve’s not mad or upset in the slightest.

“Are you ok?”

“Great.” It's just that his chest is caving in. 

“Buck, I enjoyed the fuck out of what we did last night, but if you didn’t, I want you to tell me. I won’t be upset, it won’t affect your employment, I just want to know.”

“What? No, Steve I fuckin’…you did? Had a good time?”

“Incredible,” he says softly.

“Me, too. I just thought…you said we needed to talk.”

Steve chuckles. “Well, we do. That is, assuming you want to continue.”

“Ohmygodyes.” That makes Steve laugh outright and Bucky wants to kiss him, tries to lean in but Steve evades kindly and smoothly, swooping next to him to join in chopping vegetables.

“Alright, so let’s talk timeframe. When are you open to sceneing?”

“After work.” The answer comes right away as he realizes they’re not talking about a romantic relationship, and it stings a little, but what they’re discussing is more than he ever expected or dreamed of, honestly. “I’m usually done by six, if that works.”

“Perfect. And you want your day job to remain the same?”

Bucky blinks at Steve, trying desperately to read between the lines and getting nothing. “Steve, this is a mutual thing. We’re consenting adults with complimentary tastes. Let’s keep it at that.”

Relief is evident in Steve’s eyes, but there’s something else there too. Sadness? It’s gone in an instant. Buck doesn’t know what to do with that, so he continues. “How should we start?”

Steve glances over at him and there’s obvious hunger in his face as his eyes sweep Bucky’s body. “Some sort of verbal cue that won’t be confused with anything else.”

“I could just call you Sir.”

The ravenous look doesn’t leave Steve’s face as he shakes his head. “You’re the kind of smartass to use that in public just to get me riled up. Something more specific.”

Laughing, Bucky suggests, “How about ‘Can we play?’”

“I like it.”

“Then how do you want me, to start?”

“Shirt off, kneeling. That work for you?”

Buck gulps and his reply still comes out a whisper. “Yeah.”

“Good. Colors seemed to work, you have a safe word?”

“Just red, is that ok?”

“Perfect. Keep it simple. Limits?”

Competing thoughts surface in his mind and he should filter through them silently, should figure it out on his own first instead of word vomiting all over Steve but it doesn’t quite work and comes out his mouth instead.

“I’ve never done this with a person I trusted. It’s always been clubs or parties, accountability but not safety...I don’t even know. I can’t do collars, don’t like to be degraded…”

Steve is watching him cautiously and prompts, “How about marks?”

Bucky shrugs. “Nothing permanent.”

“You like spanking? Caning?”

“No caning. Spanking sometimes. And sometimes it might set me off. I don’t… I’m sorry, I know this is a lot of exceptions…”

“Don’t apologize, Buck.” He pauses, thoughtful, offering up a starting point. “I'd like to take care of you. When we play. I get the impression that doesn't come easy for you but-”

Bucky barks a laugh. “You're one talk.”

Steve frowns at him but there's amusement in his eyes. “But I’d like to. If you want.”

Buck nods slowly. He does want. It’s a distracting thought but Steve keeps him focused.

“Non-sexual servitude?”

“Yes, mostly. I’ll tell you if I can’t for some reason.”

Steve smiles at him and it feels like an award. “Great. Bondage?”

“No. Not yet. But you could pin me …”

“Orgasm denial?”

Heat creeps to his cheeks at the thought. “Yes,” he whispers. “Within reason. I'd like you to make some decisions for me.”

Steve's eyes darken. “I’d like that, too.”

Buck leans back against the counter, considering. “I actually like my job, for reasons other than the fact that my boss is distractingly sexy, believe it or not. If we have a personal issue it can't affect work.”

In a truly shocking turn of events, Steve blushes at the compliment, rose tinting the tops of his cheekbones and Bucky’s stomach clenches. “Fair.” He’s staring, vegetables forgotten, with an expression that Buck would call shy if he thought Steve Rogers were capable of that emotion. Sure enough, within a breath the other man looks normal again. “I’m going to print out a list of limits, I’d like you to think through them, at least as a place to start.”

Bucky nods. He’d like that too, to figure out what he likes with someone he actually trusts.

\--

“So Steve and I are…”

“Oh my god, finally,” Nat mutters.

“What do you mean finally?”

“Dating, Playing or fucking?”

“Is this some weird version of Fuck, Marry, Kill?” he jokes but at her unamused expression he throws his hands up. “Fine, fine, jesus. Playing. What?”

She’s doing that staring thing where Bucky’s fairly sure she’s looking into his soul, and frowning, but if she’s got something else to say, she keeps it to herself. 

Somehow, everything changes and nothing does. Occasionally, Buck’ll get a wave of memory, but for the most part, the really painful shit stays buried, enough that he manages to convince himself that nothing’s actually wrong, that that night had been a freak accident, a weird brain trick, and as promised, he continues to do his job admirably. The house and yard continue to look more and more well-kept, and he’s finalizing plans to install solar panels on the roof as well as starting a vegetable garden. 

It feels good to be in charge of something and in control of himself. As life gets easier he occasionally finds himself wondering if his skills could be put towards something more productive, but he has no idea what that would look like, and every time he tries to think about it he starts to panic.

So that’s normal.

He and Steve on the other hand…

The first week they play every day, eager to spend time in their new roles, though a few of the sessions are simply Steve doing work at his desk while Bucky reads at his feet, sci-fi novels or journals or news articles. On the first of those days Steve apologized for the monotony of the necessary work, said he could go if he wanted, and Bucky told him to shut the fuck up.

“I like this,” he’d said. “Calms me down. I’ll tell you if I need something different.”

And Steve had listened and left it alone after that.

Not everything was platonic, though. Bucky couldn’t get enough of Steve’s cock in his mouth, and he wasn’t always polite about it. Halfway through the first conference call he’d been privy to, (Steve usually sends him out during business calls) he’d been so overwhelmed by Steve’s confidence and prowess that he’d dropped the article he'd been reading and crawled under the desk, pressing his face into the crotch of Steve’s dress pants.

Steve had rolled his chair back ever so slightly to raise warning eyebrows, but Bucky ignored him completely. He’d untucked Steve’s cock and his own, stroking himself as he worked Steve over thoroughly, mostly by swallowing him all the way down and holding himself there for as long as he could last before pulling off to gasp quietly.

Steve hadn’t stopped him, continuing the conference call with little more than the occasional twitch, staring down at Bucky as if to say, ‘nice try’. Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately) for him, Bucky is nothing if not competitive, and had gone at it with such enthusiasm that Steve had gotten very quiet, contributing much less to the conversation until he came, silent and shaking as Bucky swallowed his release.

The second he’d hung up, he hauled Bucky up, fingers fisted in the hair at the back of Bucky’s head. “What the fuck was that?” he’d growled.

Bucky’d shrugged, smiling. “Couldn’t help it.”

“Couldn’t help it, huh? Over the desk.” The wood had only been cold against his hips for a brief moment before Steve’s arm slid into place around him, cushioning. “Five,” Steve rumbled. “One for every person on that conference call you could’ve offended.”

“Could’ve,” Buck protested. “But didn’t.”

“Plus an extra one for that mouth.”

“Oh come-”

“Seven. And Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t you dare come.”

His whine turned to a shout at the first blow but Steve, ever attentive, checked in immediately. “Color?”

“Green.’

Another smack then warm fingers trailing down between his cheeks, a knuckle kneading into his perineum, then another two blows without warning.

“Fuck,” he’d panted, shifting against the warm body pressed against his back. Steve’s breath tickling his neck drove him crazy but he didn’t have time to think about it because another two blows landed and he had to focus on not coming.

He waited for the last one, but instead of pain in his ass he’d felt a bite to his shoulder blade, then another to his neck. Steve licking and nipping his way across the top of Bucky’s back felt like heaven, so distracting that when he had landed the last blow Buck was completely caught off guard and had given a little sob. He ended up in Steve’s lap, straddling his legs, without really knowing how he got there, pain taking a backseat to need, especially when Steve ran hot palms up and down Bucky’s thighs. He’d been praying Steve would let him get off, but he’s not quite expecting, “Get yourself off. And _don’t you dare_ make a mess.”

That was a problem. Between blowing his Dom and the spanking Buck was already close, and the smoldering challenge on Steve’s face almost did him in right then and there. As his orgasm ignited at the base of his spine he’d pushed Steve’s sweater up out of the way. Buck never got to see him shirtless, and all the fantasizing in the world hadn't prepared him for the sight of golden skin and cut muscle that had him curling over, face to Steve’s chest, coming hard across his boss’s stomach.

He’s a smartass but a good sub and he hadn’t forgotten, even with the mind numbing orgasm. Boneless, he’d slid off Steve’s lap, kneeling between his knees, and slow with endorphins, licked his come from Steve’s skin.  
“Oh my god,” Steve had breathed, awed, and slid soft fingertips over Buck’s cheeks to the back of his neck, just resting. It was not much of a punishment, if that was the intent, but neither of them complained.

And that was just the start of it.

Today Bucky’s lying in the carpet in Steve’s office, shirtless, as requested, and beyond relaxed. They’ve been experimenting with their new arrangement for almost two weeks now, but it’s been two days since he’s seen Steve, and when he came into the office today the other man had barely looked up from his computer, though he’d responded “We can play,” with a smile. Bucky, on the other hand, is practically crawling out of his skin with need for Steve’s attention but there’s no way he’s going to beg for it, so he pulls Ender’s Game down for a reread, knowing he’ll get sucked in quickly.

It works, so much so that he doesn’t notice the half a dozen times Steve glances at him over the top of his laptop screen. Eventually though, his arms get tired of holding the book or his upper body depending on how he lays, and he sets the it aside.

The past two weeks have been incredible. They don’t get a ton of time together between work and working out, and they haven’t fucked yet which Bucky can tell Steve’s being purposeful about, though he’s not sure what they’re waiting for. Bucky sucks him off every chance he gets, and Steve loves to touch him, running his mouth and fingers and cock over every plane of Bucky’s body.

Steve’s a good Dom, controlled and level-headed, always checking in. They haven’t strayed much further than spanking, probably because Bucky hasn’t returned the checklist Steve asked him to review. It’s not that he’s being deliberately difficult, he just truly doesn’t know. He doesn’t want their relationship to be based off the handful of experiences from clubs over the years, so he’s got no precedent to reference whatsoever. It doesn’t help that Steve makes him flustered in the best way. The guy is mind-blowingly beautiful and frustratingly aloof, but never in a way that makes Buck feel unsafe, just curious.

It’s cozy in the office, a warm glow from the lamp on Steve’s desk and heat from the vent behind the couch sending Bucky into a trance broken by the ringing of his phone. “Permission to answer, sir?”

“Granted,” Steve murmurs, still not looking up and it’s making Buck a little crazy. Belatedly he wonders if Steve’s doing it on purpose.

“Barnes,” he answers.

“Jimmy boy! How are ya?”

It takes him a full minute to place the voice, all the way from his previous life, a dealer and “friend.”

“Roscoe. ”

“Fuck, you sound rough.”

“What do you want?”

“Haven’t seen you in awhile, makin’ sure you’re not dead.”

“Been gone for months Ros, if I was dead you’d be a little late.”

“Gone where?”

“None of your business.”

“Fine, fine. You lookin’ to pick up?”

The line is triggering as fuck but Bucky grinds his teeth. “Not into that anymore.”

“Wow.” Roscoe sounds impressed. “Alright. Well, there was a guy came around askin’ for you.”

“Who?”

“Dunno his name, but he was at a few of the clubs, at Matty’s house...gave me the creeps but I couldn’t tell you why…”

Bucky’s blood runs cold but he manages to keep the fear from his voice. “What’d he look like?”

“Uh…” There’s a long pause. “You know...I can’t remember. Weird, huh? Brown hair maybe...or black...Tallish maybe…”

“What’d you tell him?” This time he’s speaking too quickly but Ros was never really quick on the uptake.

“Nothin’. Just that I hadn’t seen you in weeks and then he was gone.” It couldn’t be the Empath...it’s not possible, the guy had life without parole. “You sure I can’t get you any-” and then Bucky hangs up. 

He’s been staring at the ceiling for several silent minutes when Steve says, “Buck?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who was that?” He doesn’t hear the worry in Steve’s voice.

No need to lie, he supposes. “A dealer.”

“What did he want?”

“Someone was looking for me.”

A little closer, Steve says, “Who?”

“He didn’t know.”

“You ok?”

“Fine.”

“Fine, huh?” There’s a tug on the ankle of Bucky’s jeans and he glances down to see Steve crouched next to his feet.

“Yep.”

“You know,” Steve muses, settling with his knees on either side of Bucky’s legs. “I don’t appreciate lying.”

“‘M not lying,” Buck argues, eyes widening as he watches Steve inch forward on all fours until he’s boxing him in, sharp blue eyes flicking over the planes of Bucky’s face.

“You’re full of shit.” 

“Am not.”

Steve ignores him. “But I’m gonna take care of you anyway.”

“Take care of me?”

“Mm-hm.” And then Steve’s kissing him, slow and deep and all that attention Bucky’s been longing for is suddenly very much his own.

When they see each other outside of this agreement, Steve acknowledges him only casually: a nod, a small smile. Sometimes if they catch each other during a meal or midnight snack they chat, but there’s always a veil, a wall, a ‘don’t fuck with me’ vibe that Bucky can’t ignore no matter how hard he tries, and it’s only confusing because of moments like these, moments when Steve kisses earnestly, soft lips sliding gently over Bucky’s with such intense fondness it can’t possibly be entirely an act. It’s consistent in this context though: Dom Steve is attentive and sweet, so Buck lets himself get lost in the feeling.

“The cars look incredible,” Steve murmurs against his skin. Buck had washed and waxed them earlier.

“Good.”

“You know what else looks incredible?”

“Oh my god.” Bucky can already hear the dad joke coming.

“Your ass in those jeans.”

But Steve’s not the only one who can sass, and Buck wriggles his hips. “Looks even better out of ‘em.”

“Is that a fact?” Steve’s whisper tickles Bucky’s ear and he arches his back, hips brushing Steve’s dress pants. “Think I should be the judge of that, don’t you?”

Buck nods, grinning and Steve shimmies the denim down his hips.

Bucky’s got a myriad of issues, but body image isn’t one of them and he revels in Steve’s attention. “So fuckin’ gorgeous, Buck.” Again, completely out of character for day-to-day Steve, but here it just works.

“You gonna touch me, Sir?”

Steve slaps the inside of his thigh hard enough to hurt. “Anybody ever tell you you’re a bit of a brat?”

With a shit-eating grin Buck replies, “But I’m _your_ brat, Sir,” and Steve sighs, looking strangely awed. 

“Yes. Yes you are.” He tugs Bucky’s boxers down and tosses them away, sitting back to enjoy the view. The backs of his knuckles trail up Bucky’s thighs, across his hips, beneath his belly button making his whole body tremble. Across his chest stopping to pinch each nipple, up the tendons of Buck’s neck then caressing his cheek gently and only when Bucky nuzzles into the touch does he lower his weight just enough to brush over Bucky’s erection.

They both gasp, though Steve tries to hide his, but Buck can feel the warmth of his body even through the fabric of his slacks. It’s a rush knowing that Steve is affected by him, even with the calm facade he’s always broadcasting. Bucky grinds up a little just to see how Steve will react, but it only earns him another slap, this time to his shoulder, before the older man tugs Buck’s hands up to rest in the carpet above his head. “Hold still.”

“Ok, ok.”

“I mean it.” He slides down and repositions so he’s kneeling between Bucky’s legs. “Make as much noise as you want, but don’t you dare move.”

Buck gulps and nods clasping his hands more tightly, watching as Steve leans forward. As much as Bucky enjoys giving head, Steve has yet to return the favor, which is not to say he doesn’t get Bucky off. He does, and often. Bucky’d just assumed it was a power thing, that Steve wanted to keep the balance, didn’t want to bow (or kneel) to Bucky’s whims, but now…

Now he licks a searing strip from hip to hip then sucks a bruise into the left one. A bite to his thigh. And then, torturously, Steve exhales warm air along the length of Buck’s cock. The reflex is to jerk his hips up, but he remembers his instructions and manages to keep his body still, though the energy escapes out his mouth. “Shit, Steve.”

“Good boy. Hold still.”

“I know,” Buck whispers, trying to calm himself but then Steve takes the head of his cock into his mouth and Bucky shouts. “Fuck!”

Steve is as good as his word, or better. He takes care of Buck, alright, yanks his thoughts out of unsavory territory and files them smoothly away, pushing back the shadows with every pass of his mouth. Bucky tries so hard to be good, and even then it almost doesn’t work. He’s reduced to a whining, panting mess at the sensation but also at the sight of Steve’s mouth stretched around his cock, one blue-paint splashed hand scratching lightly across his stomach. “Christ, fuck,” he breathes, slamming his eyes closed. “Steve…”

“You do not have permission to come yet,” Steve warns, taking over with his hand for a moment.

“You’re mouth feels so good,” Bucky pants.

“Yeah?” Steve grins.

“Looks -ah!- so good too…”

“Then look, Buck.” It’s a command.

Steve pushes him to the edge again and again, eyes trained on Bucky, drinking in the sound until his cries become something closer to sobs and with a word, gives him the go ahead. Bucky comes so hard he sees stars.  
The room comes back into focus to Steve cleaning him up with a tissue, looking almost as blissed out as Bucky feels. “Better?”

Buck nods. His mind is calm, controlled, any lingering cravings buried deep beneath endorphins. There’s just one thing, and Steve brushes the backs of his fingers down Bucky's cheek. 

“Tell me what you need.”

They never play in Steve's room, and nine time out of ten Steve will leave after a scene, take a shower, work out and so Buck feels meek about asking. “Would you hold me? Just for a minute, I know you have work but…”

Steve is shaking his head and at first Bucky thinks he’s declining but then he says, “You’re more important.” He tugs a pillow down from the couch for his head then pulls Bucky into his arms.

Bucky knows he means when they’re sceneing. Of course, because Steve is a wonderful Dom. He lets himself pretend anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

It's better than before, but Bucky’s pretty sure the sleepless nights will never be completely done with him. He’s feeling strange, a restless sort of loneliness that keeps skittering through his chest just as he thinks he’s managed to forget. The thing with Steve should be helping, but Bucky has a sneaking suspicion it's actually the cause. After an hour of looking up through the skylight, trying hard and unsuccessfully to keep his mind blank, he gets up and goes to the kitchen. He knows what he needs but since he sure as shit isn't going to get the first thing on the list, he heads downstairs for the second. 

He checks the fridge and does a tiny fist pump of success: all ingredients in stock. Rolling up the sleeves of his hoodie, he sets a pan to heat while he dumps the dry ingredients into a bowl, then cracks the eggs into a measuring glass and adds the finishing touch, watching it froth as he pours. 

“What the fuck?” It’s Steve in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. “Dr. Pepper? What are you making?” 

“Pancakes.”

There’s just lingering silence as a response so Buck turns back to Steve, then immediately wishes he hadn’t. One brow is quirked incredulously, but that’s not the issue. The issue is the faded grey sweatshirt and flannel pants that he’s wearing, and the way his hair is sticking up in little golden spikes, the way he looks young and soft and rumpled and Buck is absolutely not allowed to touch, because they’re not playing. 

“What?” Steve finally asks, going to the fridge and Buck has to scramble for a cover. “Uh, noth-nothing. Why are you up?”

Steve huffs a wry chuckle into the cool air. “Dreams. Sorry if you wanted the kitchen to yourself.”

“No!” It's the wrong response and Steve straightens to smile dubiously. “I mean...I mean, it’s your kitchen…” The smile cools, only a fraction but Buck notices. Fuck. Try again. “I’m glad you’re here.” Steve’s face softens but Buck doesn’t know that expression, it’s new, deep, raw. “Can I … uh… can I make you some pancakes?”

“Yeah,” he laughs, probably at Bucky’s stammering, and returns to the fridge. He reaches in, glances back over hesitantly then rolls his eyes, at himself maybe, and pulls out the milk and a can of chocolate syrup. “Can I make you some chocolate milk? My specialty…”

“Yeah,” Buck whispers, feeling strangely satisfied by the fact that Steve offered (finally), and confused about all the times he evidently tried to hide it. Maybe Steve sees the expression because he offers an explanation. “My ma made it for me, and then my -” He screeches to a halt, so abruptly he has to cough his way around the pause. “Anyway. It’s not particularly...uh…I dunno. Mature?”

He looks uncomfortable and Bucky is painfully curious, but even more than that, he has the uncontrollable urge to set them on even footing again, to make Steve feel comfortable, so he says, “You’re almost a hundred. Don’t worry about maturity, gramps.”

Steve throws his head back and laughs, clutching his belly, and when he finally catches his breath he steps into Bucky’s space, looking for a moment as if he wants to kiss him but pauses a foot away and tucks a strand of hair behind Buck’s ear. 

“Fine. Get cookin’ then, kiddo.”

Bucky beams, and even though they’re not playing, obeys.

Steve makes him his milk (it’s perfect), and Bucky’s expecting him to leave, or at very best dick around on his laptop at the kitchen table, but instead he leans against the counter and watches Buck work with a soft but unreadable look on his face. 

“What?”

“What?” Steve echoes, smiling only a little.

“What’re you lookin’ at, punk?”

Steve huffs. “I could tell ya but I’d have to kill you.”

Is he flirting?

“You could try.” 

“Ooh, tough guy, huh?”

“Damn right. Think you can take me?”

“I think I could order you onto your knees right now and you’d fall in a heartbeat.”

The worst part is, Bucky’s knees actually buckle a little, but ever the smart ass, he’s got a comeback at the ready. “I think I could get you off in three minutes flat and you’d fall just as hard.”

Pupils blown wide, Steve steps back into his space. “Is that a fact?” The challenge is plain in his voice and Bucky can’t help himself. 

“Would you like me to try? Sir?” 

The air leaves Steve’s lungs in a rush and he leans in, lips brushing Bucky’s jaw and then his ear and the brunette waits with baited breath and cautious optimism. “Tempting. But not tonight.”

Swallowing dryly, Buck nods, feeling unrealistically hurt. Theirs is not a romantic agreement. Hell, it's practically a business arrangement. He can’t actually be upset. Doesn’t stop the hollow feeling in his chest.

Fortunately, that batch of pancakes are done and he has something to occupy him. 

“Why are you up?”

He shrugs coolly, trying to get back into a more amiable headspace. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“How come?” Steve sounds like he actually cares.

“Haven’t fallen asleep sober in a decade. Takes some getting used to.”

“Why’d you quit?”

“Almost killed a guy.” He freezes, spatula in hand, horrified. No. No, no, no he hadn’t meant for Steve ever to know about this. They’re not friends, they’re employer, employee, fuck buddies -

“Buck?”

When he looks, though, Steve doesn’t look angry or judgmental, in fact his brows are furrowed in empathy and it pulls at the tension in Bucky’s chest, unknots some of the loathing and aching and it spills out. 

“Bad day, too many memories. Got drunk, went to a club. Kept thinkin’ about my parents, about getting stuck in that loop -”

“Loop?” 

“He made me watch in my mind, over and over again. ‘S why I was so far gone when you got to me.” Steve makes a sharp noise but Buck powers on, afraid of what’ll get stuck in his dreams if he tries to stop now. “Anyway, I had a shitty Dom, he knew what he wanted and usually I can slip under but… I dunno. Something was just wrong that day. When I tried to leave he gave me shit, tried to stop me. Had to pretend I'm weak as I look to save face, got out with a damn split lip, and then these guys mugged me. It was the last straw. I threw one down the damn alley, almost broke the other one’s neck…” He shudders, thinking of that night, how bad it had been after, trembling and alone, and then realizes he probably just freaked the shit out of his boss, but when he turns to make amends Steve's right next to him. 

“Can I hug you?” There's something indefinable about his tone, strange like that earlier look, but Bucky wants nothing more than just that so he sighs and melts into Steve. 

“I'm so sorry,” he whispers against Buck’s forehead, but Bucky's too busy reveling in the warmth and the safety of strong arms wrapped tightly around him. “About all of that.”

“‘S ok. They were good parents. Not everyone gets that.”

“True,” Steve murmurs. “I never knew my dad.” 

Bucky pulls back reluctantly to pour more batter onto the griddle. “What happened to him?”

Steve shrugs. “Left. Before I was born. My - my ma raised me.” His voice catches strangely. 

“What was she like?”

Air leaves Steve's lungs like a wave. “Home,” is all he says, and it's so right that Bucky chokes off a rogue sob. “Lost so many homes.” It's quiet and cryptic and Bucky almost asked but then Steve prompts, “Yours?”

Bucky nods. “Same. She was wonderful. Took good care of my dad and I. He was real quiet, but I knew he loved me. We were dirt poor, but he’d find little things, or buy them, things he thought I’d like, a book, a penknife, a map of the stars. He was an Empath, really gifted, a professor...” He shakes his head. “Anyway. Enough.”

He's not looking at Steve, choosing instead to stare at the pan, but suddenly warm lips are pressed to his temple and it eases the pain some, enough that he manages to smile and say, “Will you get the ice cream for the pancakes?”

He and Steve eat almost silently, Bucky reading and Steve checking email, but Steve pulls Bucky's ankles into his lap and the tap of computer keys and the weight of the pancakes and the lull of occasional conversation serenade them tired enough to actually sleep.

\--  
“You what?” Natasha shrieks, fluttering in front of him. 

Bucky blinks at her from where he's swinging slowly on a rope in the warehouse. “We ate pancakes. What?”

“And talked about your families!”

“So?” 

“James, even I barely know anything about Steve’s family.”

Bucky shrugs and wraps the rope around his leg so he can tumble backward and remain attached. “Maybe he just never got around to telling you.”

Now upside down Natasha is suddenly in his face. “Are you serious?” 

“What?”

She shakes her head slowly at him. “I'm...that's...wow. You two...just wow.”

“What?!”

She mutters something he can’t quite make out, but he’s pretty sure ‘idiots’ and ‘love’ are somewhere in there, before audibly demanding, “How do you feel about him?”

“About Steve? I dunno. He’s gorgeous. Good boss. Seems...like a nice guy.” They’re not the right words: good, nice. Steve is generous, brilliant, kind, mysterious, frustrating, gentle, exquisite, but...nice?

Nat’s jaw drops, outraged, which looks funny upside down, before she darts away, cussing in a few different languages under her breath.

\--

“Buck?” Steve’s voice floats up through the cool air.

“What?”

“What the fuck is going on? It sounds like you’re trying to hammer through the house.”

Bucky peers over the edge of the roof. “Shingles.”

Steve’s suppressing a grin as he says, “Need any help?”

“No,” Buck grumps, and he’d fold his arms if he could spare them.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Bucky-”

“You’re literally paying me to do this, Steve! You don’t have to help!” he shouts. There’s no reply and the distance between them is too great for him to discern Steve’s facial expression, especially as he disappears from view. There’s the faint but increasingly loudening tapping of footsteps on the ladder, up and up and up...

Blond hair first, then broad shoulders as Steve hauls himself up. “Listen here you stubborn ass.”

“We’re not playing,” Buck gripes. “You’re not my Dom.”

Nonplussed, Steve chastises,“No. I’m your boss. Let me help.”

“Fine. Hold these will you?”

The only sound is the nail gun and birds chirping in the distance until Bucky asks, “What’re you doing out here anyway?”

“Going stir-crazy. We’re putting together a fundraiser for the charity but there are three other people on the board we’re not getting anything done. Tony’s stubborn as hell -”

“Hm. Now who does that remind me of?” Bucky mumbles through a nail pinched between his lips but Steve just glares at him and barrels on. “Nick thinks he knows everything -”

“Again, so familiar.”

This time the glare is more of a death stare and Buck learns it’s difficult to smile with hardware in your mouth.

“And Bruce is brilliant, but he just makes everything more difficult than it needs to be.”

“Sounds like you guys are a perfect match then.” He thinks he’s doing a pretty good job of keeping the laughter out of his voice but Steve huffs and smacks him, harder than is really necessary.

“Ow! Go easy on the goods, yeah?”

“That was going easy.” If Bucky wasn’t a student of Steve’s facial expressions now he might have missed the twitch at the corner of his mouth, but he catches it, and socks him soundly in the shoulder with not inconsiderable force.

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

“You hit me first!”

“Real mature Barnes.”

“You’d know about that, old man.”

Laughing aloud Steve shoves him lightly and unthinking, Buck shoves back.

Steve wobbles on his heels for a second, and there’s plenty of time for him to catch himself on any number of handholds, but he doesn’t, just tips and falls off the edge of the roof.

“STEVE!” Buck screams.

Abandoning everything Bucky descends so quickly he practically slides down the ladder to find Steve on his back in the grass. He’s not bleeding, looks fine except his eyes are closed.

“Steve?” Buck shakes him. “Steve!”

No, no, no, this stupid motherfucker. What the fuck was he thinking? He’d had plenty of time...Panic and _pain_ creeps up and up and -

Steve cracks one eye open, squinting and grinning a little. “‘S what you get for pushing your boss.”

Bucky’s jaw drops and he scrambles away. “Fuck you.” He means for it to be a snarl but it comes out a gasp. “That’s not funny.”

Steve blinks at him, surprised, perhaps by the tone of his voice, and his smile falls. “Buck, I’m fine. I’m...I can’t really get hurt…”

“Oh,” Bucky snaps. “Good,” and he reels back and punches Steve in the mouth as hard as he can.

\--

Fucker. Fucking fucker.

It’s not funny. It’s not a joke.

Bucky’s so fucking mad he races up the ladder and finishes the roof in record time. Steve retreats to his office.

He stays mad through another hour of landscaping, when he manages to calm down enough to analyze _why_ he feels like dying.

If it had been his fault… If anything ever happened to Steve…

Without even realizing it Bucky had set a lot of store by the knowledge that Steve didn’t age, and therefore, wouldn’t die ( _like everyone else_ ). He didn’t know Steve couldn’t get hurt, though his lip sure had split nicely beneath Bucky’s knuckles. But Steve probably figured he knew. He’s not a mean-spirited person. He wasn’t trying to fuck with Bucky…

It takes another few hours for him to come around to feeling bad about punching the guy, but by then he’s done with his work and his mind is working overtime to avoid the glaring reality that no one freaks out this badly over an acquaintance, and Bucky needs to do a better job keeping his distance if he’s going to make it out of this alive. But then again: damn is he lacking in self-preservation.

He calls Steve a few times but it goes straight to voicemail. He checks the office, puts an ear to Steve’s bedroom door...nothing, but as he’s standing there, cheek pressed to hardwood, he hears music, faint yet persistent, and follows it up the narrow staircase to the attic.

It’s a studio. In no uncertain terms. Steve’s studio.

Steve, his boss, all button downs and dad jokes stands across the room, shirtless, with jeans slung low on his hips. His body is beautiful beyond belief and Bucky is so gobsmacked by the sight that it takes him a full minute to realize what Steve’s doing to make those muscles stretch and pull so beautifully.

He’s painting. Not like anyone would imagine, not with paint brushes or pencil. On a canvas that’s at least as tall as he, with bare hands dipped in paint, he’s sweeping broad strokes and leaning down abruptly for new colors, new textures, occasionally rinsing his fingers in a bucket of water at his feet.

There’s a cello and full orchestra in the music playing, sad and glorious, and though the painting has no specific form, the sea-greens and greys seem to mimic it perfectly. Lonely. Exquisite.

He shouldn’t be up here, but he’s not about to leave. Too much has happened today, he doesn’t want to be alone, he needs… But this is Steve’s time now.

Bucky steps fully into the room and a floorboard whines at him. By the stiffening of Steve’s shoulders Buck can tell he’s heard, but he doesn’t pause his work. Moving quietly now, Buck finds a place at the edge of the room and kneels, stripping off his shirt, hands on his knees, but he doesn’t bow his head. He watches.

Watches the roll of Steve’s shoulders, the incredible cut of muscle at his hips. Observes the dance-like flow of his motions, swirls and sweeps with his hands. Drinks in the image of Steve’s messy hair and his paint-splattered denim, the way he swishes his hands in the water bucket and then wipes them, front and back, on his pockets.

His boss finally turns around and Bucky tempers his expression, but Steve’s face softens as the stare holds for longer than is probably appropriate before crossing the room to crouch down in front of him.

They stare at each other, sharing space ‘til the close of the cello piece, and into the hush of the changing tracks Bucky whispers, “I’m sorry.”

Steve makes a broken little noise in his throat and reaches out to cup Bucky’s face in his hand. “Buck -”

“I thought I … I didn’t know that you… I’m sorry.”

Steve shakes his head wordlessly, clearly trying to say something, but it never comes out so he leans forward and kisses Bucky instead. His split lip has closed most of the way but Buck can still taste salt when he licks over it and as he does, Steve’s breath hitches. Inching forward, Bucky slides his hands around Steve’s waist, his first opportunity to touch the skin there, then sweeps across Steve’s back mimicking the motions from his painting and the taller man sighs into his mouth.

“I thought you knew.”

“I figured you did.”

“I’d never have - ”

“Steve. It’s ok. I know. I was just…scared.”

Steve’s eyes search his face frantically then he tries to crack a smile. “Probably not great to kill your boss.”

Bucky shouldn’t say it but the past day, the past month, the past decade has been too much of a rollercoaster and he can’t quite keep it in. “Wasn’t my boss I was worried about losing.” Maybe Steve will think he means Buck values him as a Dom, which he does, but that’s not at all what he’s talking about, and perhaps the softness in his voice gives it away because understanding flashes bright in Steve’s eyes, flickering almost like tears before he’s clearing the emotion away and tugging Bucky to his feet.

“C’mere.”

Steve pulls him over to the canvas he’d been working on and orders him to strip, before having him kneel on the folded tarp he lays out. Steve stays standing for a long moment, assessing him, and it should make Buck self-conscious but instead he just feels adored. Cared for. 

Impossibly graceful, Steve sinks to his knees opposite Bucky and after pressing a single soft kiss to his lips, leans over and dips his finger in a can of deepest blue. Smooth and slow he sets the pad of that finger to the far edge of Bucky’s collar bone and drags the paint across, leaving a wet chill behind. It makes Buck gasp, but Steve’s just watching his face, rapt with wonder. Another fingerful, this time swooping down Buck’s sternum in a whorl. It’s mesmerizing.

There’s so much feeling in his chest that for once, Bucky keeps his mouth shut. Occasionally, he’ll even shut his eyes, try to memorize the feeling and the smell and the safety, this thing he only feels with Steve. When he’s here, when he’s under, there’s not a single craving or memory that’s stronger than his desire to be good.

Dots of brighter color, oranges and yellows and blues, and then more blue, and black, a galaxy blooming across his chest. Occasionally Steve will brush across a sensitive patch of skin and Bucky will shiver or gasp, but he mostly manages to keep still.

As Steve works his way down, Bucky’s body starts to pay attention, cock hardening against his thigh, but it’s not urgent, the only important matter is that Steve is touching him, and he does that, over and over, down his stomach, across his ribs…

Buck vacillates between staring at the mural taking form across his chest, and drinking in the sight of Steve without a shirt. He’s beautiful, cut muscle and velvet skin, so perfect it makes Bucky want to cry though he’s not sure if it’s from jealousy or wanting and eventually Steve notices. He’s finishing the ring of a Saturn-like planet near Bucky’s navel, when he says, 

“What?”

Bucky just shakes his head. “Never...never seen you…”

Steve glances down, almost surprised at seeing himself without a shirt. “Oh. Of course.”

“You’re gorgeous,” Buck says, without meaning to. 

The words paint a blush across Steve’s cheekbones and for a moment he’s just so painfully beautiful that it makes Buck panicky that he’ll get wise and dump Bucky, fire him, leave him, whatever. Why would he want this?

Doesn’t matter. He’s got here, now to love Steve the best he can, but he’s got to say it without the words because neither of them are ready to hear it.

Carefully, Buck presses a hand to the still-damp paint on his body then places the palm against Steve’s chest, over his heart, holding it there for longer than is probably necessary. He doesn’t look up for even a moment as he does it, but Steve doesn’t move his fingers from where they're still resting against Bucky’s skin, so maybe it will be ok, maybe they’ll be alright…

Buck lifts his hand. Left behind is a whorl of stars and colorful gasses surrounded by blue-black light, perfect and crackly from the lines of Bucky’s palm. Steve touches it reverently and only then does Bucky look at his face, sees the shock, the awe, a brilliant flash of pain and hope, for an instant, before Steve is gripping him by the arms and manhandling him around.  
“Stay,” he orders, and then there’s frantic rummaging, a box slamming, but Buck is good, he obeys, listens Steve’s footsteps fall closer. A thick blanket gets shoved beneath him, and he’s barely registered the fact when he feels cool, damp fingers on his ass, then Steve’s tongue swipe across his hole.

The feeling escapes out his mouth in the form of a shout and Steve pants, “Color?”

Bucky barely has breath left. “Green.”

And then Steve is fucking into Buck with his tongue, strong and sure, not an ounce of going easy on him and it’s exactly what Bucky needs. Proof, indelible and sharp, that Steve is alive, that he’s here, that he’s not running yet. 

Buck’s achingly hard almost instantly as slick fingers open him up and he ends up mewling into the comforter, begging pieces of words into the fabric. The very instant Steve can add another finger without really hurting Buck, he does. The stretch feels perfect and between mind-blowing sensations he can feel Steve pressing open-mouthed kisses to his spine, his thighs, the small of his back.

Another finger and it burns so perfectly that the sensation reverberates across his body, into the nape of his neck and the pit of his stomach. Buck strains to hear any sound from Steve he takes him apart with, and there’s nothing, but there’s no doubting the slight trembling of his hands. Then suddenly Bucky’s being filled up where he's been empty for so long and there's no room to dwell on anything else. 

Steve's huge, he knows that, loves the way it's a challenge not to choke when he's blowing him, and it's even better with that length pressed into him, against his prostate, stretching him perfectly. Why they haven't been doing this all along is lost on him. It's terrifying, mind blowing and intimate, and Bucky is drowning in it. Large hands let go his hips to dance across his skin, shoulders, waist, then into his hair, tugging, caressing. Worshiping.

It feels so exquisite that despite their roles, Buck can’t quite help but fuck himself back, meeting Steve’s momentum, opening himself up, and when it gets too much and he needs an anchor, he sits up into Steve’s lap. 

“Ok fuck,” Steve gasps, and Bucky’s without words. Not only does it shift sensations delightfully but it presses them together, skin to skin, amplifying everything. The new position gives Buck more leverage, and he takes in, rolling his hips back, fucking himself on Steve’s cock, and Steve grips his hips, urging him on. 

Buck lets go completely. There are no concerns about being too strong, about hurting Steve, but there aren’t really any concerns about being hurt, either. He tilts back, resting his head in the crook of Steve’s neck, who noses against his cheek, bites his ear, murmurs against his his temple at the sound Buck makes, “Color?”

“G-green," he gasps, and reaches down to stroke himself. “Fuck yes.”

“Don't you dare,” Steve growls, batting his hand away and Bucky lets out a little sob, gasping, “Need you.”

Steve is all short, quiet breaths, but at that he inhales sharply. Tension flies from his body, transformed into kinetic energy as he stands, an arm around Buck’s waist, lifting him up, then shoving him forward against the drywall. The other hand sweeps up his chest to cradle Bucky’s neck firmly, holding him together.

Bucky cries out at the feeling, completely consumed, perfectly controlled, so much so that he misses the tremor in Steve’s voice when he says, “Come, Buck. I got you, let go.”

Like a wave or waking up, the feeling spreads up his spine, through his gut, and Steve doesn’t let up, pounds into him as Bucky disappears into pleasure, enveloping and blinding and his muscles seize up, clenching down around Steve and wringing a cry from Bucky as he comes.

He’s never been so grateful for anything as he is that he came before Steve, because he’s come down, back on this plane of existence just long enough that when Steve gets off, Bucky knows about all of it: the way the taller man curls up over him, the tickle of soft hair and breath on his spine, and hears it, the exact tone and timbre of Steve’s voice as he whimpers, wrecked, against the skin between Buck’s shoulder blades.

It’s at that exact moment that Bucky realizes something terribly important. 

He’d taken off his shirt, but neither of them had prompted a scene. No roles this time. No Dom or sub. No safety net. He wonders what that means.

Steve doesn’t mention it.

\--

“Ow! The fuck was that for?”

Nat flops down next to him at the kitchen table, shaking out the hand she used to punch him before stealing a pickle from the open jar next to his laptop. 

“Miss ya.”

“We literally live together.”

“Not the same since you started fucking our boss.”

“Hey-”

“What? It’s true.”

Buck can’t argue, but the phrasing rubs him the wrong way for some reason.

“Sorry.” He is. He misses her too. 

“Wanna chill in the warehouse tomorrow night?” 

“Definitely,” she agrees, sipping on a cup of coffee. “Did you put that mini fridge in there?”

“Oh! Yeah! Sweet right?”

“And the fucking _crate_ of medical journals?”

“They’ll be off the floor soon, I’m gonna build some shelves over in the southwest corner, and see if we can get a couch out there too.”

“You’re gonna sleep out there if we make it anymore comfortable,” she grumbles into the email she's editing.

“Maybe,” he teases, waggling his eyebrows and Nat blinks up at him, staring.

“What?”

“You smiled.”

“Uh…”

“For real. A real damn smile.”

“Don’t sound so surprised, _angel girl_. Ow! Quit it!”

“Shut the fuck up with that angel-”

“Swear to god you punch me again-” 

“You'll what? Come on Buck-o defend yourself! No wait! Tickling is not -” She freezes. “Hey Rogers.”

Steve is hovering in the doorway, hands in his pockets and Bucky's stomach does a flip without his permission. 

“Hey.”

Buck has Nat in a headlock with one hand free to access her ribs and she's using a wing to push him away and neither of them let go until Steve shifts his weight uncomfortably. 

“What's up?”

Nat leaves one wing draped over Bucky's shoulders and it feels nice, reminds him of freezing nights in the group home when the only thing letting them sleep was the down and body heat of her additional appendages. Steve's eyes hover on the point of contact for just a breath too long and for a moment it looks like he might leave but then he huffs, steadying himself and gives an awkward half smile. 

“Sorry to interrupt …”

Bucky laughs. “Ah yes. Important business going on here.”

Chuckling, Steve drawls out, “Yeah…” He fidgets again and Bucky could swear the man is blushing a little as they let the silence stretch. 

What the fuck is going on? 

“Should I … go?” Nat asks incredulously, but Steve shakes his head and the comment seems to kick him into gear. 

“No. No, I just - Buck. You remember that fundraiser I was talking about?”

“The frustrating one?” Bucky jokes and it works. Steve loosens his stance a little. 

“Yeah. I'm supposed to bring a plus one. Would you wanna go?”

“Yes! I mean,” he adjusts his voice to a calmer timbre. “Yeah.”

“Great, thanks. I appreciate it,” Steve murmurs, smiling tightly, and with a nod, excuses himself. 

The two friends stand still in the silent kitchen until Nat says, “Oh boy.”

“Nat-” Bucky starts, but she just keeps going. 

“Oh man. Wow. That was…”

He's not sure what she's going on about; he's too deep in an ‘is this a date’ spiral to care, but he does know that this conversation will only lead to pain. There's no version of this story where the beautiful millionaire falls for his recovering-addict groundskeeper. 

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“But that was just - I mean how can he think he’s being subtle? And you -”

“Natasha. How you feel about Sam? That's how I feel about Steve. So leave it alone, ok?”

Nat freezes and glares at him, face more open and raw than usual, and he can tell she's trying to say something but that the words keep getting stuck in her brain. He hopes it's gentle, hopes she leaves him breathing. She doesn't, but it's not how he expected. 

She fills her lungs for long seconds before snapping her laptop closed and standing. Buck shivers at the cold left by the lack of wing, figuring the conversation is finished, but she stops, turns back and murmurs, surprised, “The me ‘n’ Sam comment...interesting…with Steve, I mean. I was wondering when you were going to admit you're in love with him.” 

It's late. Buck goes running anyway. 

\--

 _Get your ass out here_.

The text pings on Bucky’s phone just as he hops out of the shower. Turns out there’s a lot more prep for installing solar panels than he thought, and work ran long. He towels his hair, mulling over how long it’s gotten, and after yanking a comb through it a few times gives up and ties it in the little bun it’s finally long enough for. He’s gotta get this shit cut. 

Especially if he’s going to be Steve’s not-date. Which is what’s on his mind as he rummages around for a sweatshirt, which is why he suddenly realizes he has nothing to wear for said not-date. 

“Nat!” he hollers, charging into the warehouse and she drops down in front of him on one knee.

“Jesus, what happened?”

“You gotta help me. I have nothing to wear! It’s black tie. I don’t have any ties! I don’t have a real suit, or shoes, and what do you even do with cuff links - stop laughing. Why are you laughing?”

“Nothing. Calm down, James. I got this. Tomorrow. Ok?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.goodtoknow.co.uk/recipes/537343/dr-pepper-pancakes


	6. Chapter 6

“I’m so fucking excited,” Natasha mutters. She’s driving well above the speed limit, but maneuvering so smoothly they’ll never get pulled over, and even if they do, Bucky feels sorry for anyone that tries to give her a ticket.

“You mentioned that,” he deadpans as they screech into a parking place in front of a small establishment with cursive, gilded lettering gracing the door. “Do I look like I belong in a fucking place like this?”

“Who cares? Your employer does, and this is a fucking business expense.”

He’s immensely relieved and a little unnerved. Natasha doesn’t get excited about anything except flying and sex and kicking the shit out of anyone that fucks with her (and also videos of sea otters, but he’s sworn to secrecy on that one), but she seems fucking pumped to dress him up. 

As dubious as he’s feeling, he has to admit: the tailor’s place is gorgeous, dark wood paneling and suits hung everywhere, blues and greys and blacks and some less traditional colors, bolts of burgundy or evergreen. Ties. Shoes. Hats. There’s an air of timelessness, and Bucky lets his fingers wander the patterns as he waits.

The saleswoman does give them a weird look but also seems to recognize Natasha, so she sends them back without too much fuss. The shop specializes in bespoke suits, and the work is beautiful; even Bucky who doesn’t know shit about shit recognizes that. The craftsmanship speaks to decades of experience and a vast passion for the art. He wonders what kind of surly old scotch-drinking motherfucker he’ll be working with.

He’s in the middle of that exact thought when woman emerges from the back, tall and dark skinned and dressed impeccably in a midnight blue suit with silver buttons. Her posture and carriage indicate that she is not to be trifled with, and when she holds out a hand Bucky takes it immediately and without question.

“Hello.” Her voice is deep, but it carries. “Dessa Oliver. Pleasure.”

Bucky’s sorting through the list of things he should say for too long apparently because Natasha heads him off. “We need a suit to make our boss realize he’s in love with him.”

Nope. Not happening.

He tries to argue, really he does, but everything gets stuck in his throat and he ends up just making a helpless noise before Dessa grabs him by the arm and drags him to the dais. The two women discuss fabrics and seams and lapels as Bucky zones out at his reflection. He doesn’t spend much time looking in the mirror, avoids it in fact. It’s disconcerting how...normal he looks when his whole life has been taken apart and pieced back together. It doesn’t seem right. He kind of wishes he had some proof of what he’s been through.

On the other hand, now that he’s been eating regularly and working with his body, his shoulders are broader, legs more sturdy, and his cheeks don’t cave in quite as badly as they used to. What’s really startling, though, are his eyes. They’re...bright. The omnipresent circles that once ringed them are all but gone so when he smiles, he looks younger, almost human. He looks...better. 

“Let's get cracking,” Dessa murmurs as Nat disappears back into the showroom, and without warning Bucky is suddenly being tugged and measured and fitted and pinned. Just as he considers panicking it occurs to him that this is just life, new things everyday, overwhelming and interesting and strange, and he doesn’t get to escape into oblivion anymore, doesn’t really want to, so he takes a breath and relaxes into the discomfort. 

“So. You work for Steve Rogers.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And he’s in love with you?”

“No!” Bucky snorts. “No. Natasha’s...exaggerating.”

“But you love him.”

“N-”

Dessa is not the kind of woman you can lie to, Bucky knows this even after the brief minutes they’ve spent together, and he’s not really sure how to answer her question. (Lie, lie, lie, he knows exactly, has known from the beginning, it’s just that - )

She helps him out, though. “Well, there aren’t many people who could stand next to Rogers on the red carpet, but you’ll do nicely.”

Bucky scoffs and gets a sharp slap to the thigh for it. Her next comment catches him completely off guard, makes him wonder if maybe she’s a seer or an oracle. “You are more than the sum of your mistakes, boy, and you’re doing more than most people ever do.”

“What’s that?” he whispers.

She answers simply, as if it’s obvious. “Trying.” 

It doesn’t seem like much, but she makes him feel like it matters. He’s also a wimp, though, and can’t handle the conversation, so he changes the topic. 

“Are all the designs in the showroom yours?”

“Quite,” she mutters, frowning at the measuring tape before jotting something down.

“They’re beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“Have you always been into this stuff?”

Dessa laughs, throaty and charming. “Yes! It was one of the few things I took with me when I transitioned. Fine craftsmanship is without gender.”

Bucky decides he likes her. “I’ll second that.”

He watches her wrists as she works, strong and lithe, and doesn’t catch her smile.

“Do you have any thoughts on the garment?”

“Oh, I really…”

“James. I’d like your opinion, not your excuses, please.”

Well then.

“Could it be a suit instead of a tux?”

“If you like. Color?”

“I...I like black. Boring, huh?” 

She shakes her head, jaw jutting in disapproval, he’s guessing at his self-deprecation. “Classic.”

“Ok, then. Black.”

“Good. Anything else?”

He shrugs. “I don’t really...know anything about this stuff.”

“Sure you do. You’re just scared.”

“I am not,” he bristles, then regrets it, but she doesn’t seem angry.

“Of course you are,” Dessa says softly, with a smile that’s different from the others he’s seen. “And you should be. Love is terrifying. The trick is to live in the love, and not in the fear.”

He has no answer for her. He has no answer for himself.

Next he and Natasha shop for shoes, in the tiniest shop Buck has ever seen, but the whole place is covered in exquisitely crafted leather, polish hanging heavy in the air. As with Dessa’s store, Bucky is initially completely cowed but when he spots the most perfect pair of oxford’s: black with a unique stitching pattern he forgets his manners and his nerves. He’s got one shoe in his hands, turning it this way and that in an effort to figure out how they look so perfectly broken in when it’s obvious from the sole that they’ve never been worn. He’s so absorbed that he doesn’t notice the man behind him at all.

Gravel rumbles behind him. “Good choice.”

“Shit!” Buck jumps. “Sorry. ”

“It’s alright.”

“I didn’t…”

“Stop apologizing, boy.”

“O...k?”

‘You like ‘em?”

“Yes. Yeah.” He offers no explanation, and the cobbler doesn’t look like he needs one. The guy is old as time, but his smile is genuine.

Nat steps into the store, having just gotten off the phone with Sam. She’s a little flushed, but she grins when she sees them, wide and sincere. “Hey, old man.” Kissing his cheek, she reaches for the shoe in Buck’s hand.

“These are badass. Do you want them?”  
“Yeah, but…” he check the price. “I don’t know if -”

She interrupts. “I got it.” 

“Nat, I can’t -”

“Shut up.”

“Natasha -”

“Boy -” the old guy warns.

“Ow!” 

Natasha socks him in the meat of his shoulder, digging a knuckle between the fibers of the muscle. “I said, I got it.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, rubbing his arm. “Ok. Fine. Jesus.”

They get a few other things: sunglasses, ties, cufflinks - things Bucky’s literally never thought about having, but is secretly pretty excited to own. Fortunately, the rest of the trip is a little less emotionally confusing than the first, and they return home with more bags than Buck knows what to do with. 

He takes the shoes out every few days just to feel the leather beneath his fingers, enjoy the look of the creased, faded material. The suit arrives a week later, but he can’t bring himself to try it on, just leaves it hanging in the closet. The night before the event, Natasha shows up in his room, wings out, hair tied back, brandishing scissors.

“Bathroom,” she demands. “Now.”

He raises a brow, but he hasn’t forgotten her right hook so he complies.

“Up on the counter.”

“What are you doing?”

“Ye of little faith,” she chastises. 

“You’ve got sharp objects and a threatening tone. I’m suspicious.”

“Haircut.”

She’s good at this; he remembers from when they were young. She did most of the kids at the home in exchange for cigarettes, whiskey, money, books. He settles on the counter, still a little wary, but she combs his hair then runs damp hands through the strands, wetting it, for just a little longer than is absolutely necessary, comforting, and he relaxes into her.

“I’m glad you’re going to the event,” she murmurs

“...Me, too.”

“Nervous?”

“Obviously.”

“I guess I would be too, dating one of the richest guys in the city.”

“We’re not dating.” He’s expecting eye rolling and argument, but instead, Nat sighs.

“I know. Go easy on him though, ok? I know it’s hard, but he’s got his reasons. His wounds.”

“Don’t we all.”

“Think about how much you could lose living for a century, James.”

“I know,” he agrees quickly. “I know. I’m just…”

“Hold still.”

She gathers his hair into a low ponytail and there’s a snip, and Buck watches a sizeable chunk of hair disappear below the line of the mirror. “Damn, how much are you taking off?”

“Trust me.”

He rolls his eyes. If he didn’t, neither of them would be there.

She hums softly as she works, her low, raspy voice echoing against the tile of the bathroom, and gently fluttering her wings from side to side. It’s soothing in a way that Bucky had almost forgotten existed, and he curls his legs to his chest, forehead to his knees, and sighs contentedly. A few minutes in he’d stopped watching her work, so when the buzz of the electric razor ceases and a damp towel swipes across his neck, he blinks up at himself.

“Holy - shit.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “Nat, this is...incredible. I look like...a person!”

She laughs. “As opposed to…”

“No, I just, you know what I mean. I might actually be able to pull this off.”

“Of course you will, James.” She’s smiling for real in the reflection and he whirls around sending tufts of hair everywhere, slides off the counter, and scoops her up.

She squeals a little, arms around his shoulders, then relaxes into him, letting her feet dangle a good foot off the floor as he hugs her. They breathe together for a moment before he says, “Thank you, Natasha. For all of this.”

She kisses his cheek and slides down. “Thank for comin’ home.”

Until that moment it never occurred to him how hard she’d worked to get him there. Pestering him for years, the entire era after they’d moved out of the group home, always checking in, always backing him up. She was the only person he’d ever contact regularly, texting when he couldn’t call, writing letters when he couldn’t pay his phone bill. He’d tried with her more than anyone, but it wasn’t much. She’s more than he deserves. His throat is closing up, but he asks anyway.

“Wh - why? All this, for me.” 

She tisks, and slaps his chest, but leaves her hand there. “Idiot. You’re family.”

\--

He’s young.

Gangly.

His body is too strong, and he breaks things a lot. Pencils, plates, even the occasional desk at school. His ma always brushes his hair away from his face, kisses his forehead. “You’ll learn, honey.” His dad doesn’t say a word, but Bucky finds riddles on his pillow, or on the table next to his bed, little challenges for his too-fast brain to trip around, and it always makes him feel better. 

In the dream, it’s all the same. 

The taupe walls of their living room. The leather couch. The paintings on the wall.

In the dream, it’s just like that day. The man in the center of the worn carpet, tall, dark hair, scar splitting his chin up to his lip. Bucky can’t move from his fetal position on the floor. His ma frozen in the doorway, hand outstretched, mouth open, eyes wide. Horrified by what she’s seeing in her head. Bucky can tell she’s trying to fight to the surface, but his power is too strong. 

His dad is taking staggering steps towards the intruder, fighting off the mind manipulation pretty effectively, not nearly incapacitated, but slowed. Too slow. The Empath crosses to Buck’s ma, hands reaching for her neck.

“No! Mama!”

“Close your eyes, baby!”

He disobeys, just this once. Breaks free from the muck in his head, scrambles, charges. Knocks the man back so hard he makes a dent in the drywall.

“Good boy!” He hears his father shout, and Bucky lands a punch to the man’s gut, and another. They guy’s raving about punishment, he’ll regret it, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, Bucky doesn’t care, doesn’t stop, feels the guys skin split over bone and then there’s just pain. Warm, blinding pain that starts in the back of his head and he’s immobilized, blood dripping from his knuckles. He can’t move. There’s no time. A sharp crack rings out.

He didn’t get a chance to close his eyes. Which means that he watches as his father straightens his spine, body moving as if through quicksand, but proud, and he says, “I love you, son,” and turns to face the man. It’s over too fast and too slow simultaneously. 

Bucky dreams on repeat.

\--

It’s the worst morning he’s had in as long as he can remember, which isn’t saying much, to be fair. He doesn’t remember most of the past decade. And it isn’t really the morning. He wakes up sprints to the toilet, pukes immediately, then brushes his teeth and goes without thinking, not even bothering to throw on clothes over his boxers.

“Buck?” Steve answers the door in navy blue sleep pants, leaning sleepily against the frame. “It’s 3 in the morning. What -” he pauses, taking in whatever expression it is that Bucky’s displaying and changes the tone of this voice. “What’s wrong?”

“I -” His voice catches. “Bad dream. Worst dream. Steve, I can’t - I’m not -”

He doesn’t finish. Steve reaches out and wraps him up in his arms, warm and solid, lips pressed to Bucky’s forehead. It takes a minute for Buck to realize that he’s crying against Steve’s neck, but he’s able to stave off the soul-crushing weight of cravings for oblivion, forgetfulness. Rest. 

Eventually, he can breathe again and blinks over Steve’s shoulder into his room, which Bucky’s never seen before. They scene in Steve’s office, or Buck’s room, or the studio, or the library, anywhere but here, and then he sees the garment bag hung on the door of the closet, remembers the fundraisers tomorrow night, or today, actually. 

“Shit. Sorry. I shouldn’t have -”

“Buck. it’s alright.”

“But you need to sleep. The event is -”

“Buck -”

“It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll just - go back -” He wants to say ‘To sleep’ but the idea of returning to his bed right now sends him panicking, and Steve must see because he slides a hand down Bucky’s arm, twines their fingers together, and pulls him into the room, closing the door. 

“Come to bed.”

Bucky doesn’t check the windows, or the closet, or beneath the bed. He follows Steve under the comforter, and when the taller man reels him in, pulling their bodies flush, he simply falls asleep.

\--

He wakes again with the sun. 

He doesn’t throw up this time.

It’s almost too warm, but there’s a worn-to-perfection comforter over his chest, and more importantly, the most beautiful man next to him.

Steve’s on his side, arm draped over Bucky’s waist, and the gilded early light traces his bone structure. Steve is remarkably delicate in some ways, seemingly contradictory to such a masculine stature but it works on him: long lashes, full lips, sweet blush across his cheeks that’s always there, even if just faintly. His neck and shoulders are thick, strong, but his clavicle and the muscles that trace outward from it flow like water, like vines, sensual beneath tanned skin. 

Bucky finds himself tracing those lines along with the sun, fingertips sweeping across collarbone, up to his neck, his jaw. His mouth. 

“What you lookin’ at, jerk?” Steve mumbles, still half asleep. 

He doesn’t remove his hand, he doesn’t say, ‘perfection.’ That’d be too cheesy. He leans in and kisses Steve instead. 

The blond smiles against his mouth, then opens his eyes. Stares. Inhales deeply, surprised at what he sees. “Jeez.”

“What?” 

His mouth twists up, shy, and he shakes his head. “Nothing. I dig the hair.”

Buck blushes. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

Steve nods against the pillowcase. “You looked like you’d seen a ghost.” 

“More or less.” He pauses, shutting his eyes. “My parents.”

Steve hisses. “I'm sorry.”

“The guy’s back,” he whispers. “I know that sounds crazy, I know he's in jail, but…fuck. I swear I feel him.” 

“Not crazy,” Steve murmurs, rubbing a palm over Buck’s chest. “I could look into it, if you want.”

“What? How?”

His face darkens. “I know some people.” 

Bucky hesitates, unsure if he’s ready to start digging into his past like this, or ready to ask Steve to get involved. “Just...wait on it, ok?” 

In the stillness that follows, curiosity takes over and he can’t help but glance around the room. The walls are light blue, and thick beige carpet lines the floor. A closet, a door to what he guesses is a master bath, some paintings, a few photos.

Some of them are quite old, and why not? Steve is old, as strange as it is to consider. On the wooden dresser across the room is a framed black and white portrait of a woman holding a little boy, and there’s no doubt based on the similarities in features that she’s Steve’s mom. The photo next to the bed is sweet too. Steve with his arms around a dark haired woman. She looks vaguely familiar. A friend? Girlfriend? He blinks. He can’t quite tell, Steve’s hand is mostly covered, but her? She’s most certainly wearing a wedding band.

A wife. A wife? No, he’d have mentioned that, at least. Right? But then he remembers what Steve had said as they talked about their parents. _“Lost so many homes.”_

Why would he have mentioned, anyway? It was decades ago by the look of it, and besides, it’s not like he and Steve going to get married. They’re not even dating. 

“Buck?” 

“I uh…” 

He can't quite tear his eyes away and Steve follows the path of his stare and freezes, retreating inside himself. Bucky immediately feels terrible for bringing her up, even inadvertently, and terrified for how close he’s gotten to this man who isn’t his to keep. “I should get going.

“Yeah. Ok,” Steve says, voice hardening, and the feeling of Steve letting him go is almost worse than the pain of his dreams the night before. At least that wound’s healed, past. This one is ripping an abyss in his sternum. Present tense. But he did it too himself.

“I'll see you tonight,” he whispers.

There's no response as he leaves, so he doesn't look back to see the way Steve’s hand crumples at the sheet still warm from Buck’s body, or that the sorrowful frown isn't aimed at the photo, but instead towards the broad shoulders of a retreating form. 

\--

“Come the fuck out already!”

“Are we late?” he hollers back. 

“No...”

“Then chill the fuck out!”

He readjusts his tie for the third time, and he really needs to stop. The double Windsor looks great. Thank you, YouTube tutorials.  
Nat's right though. He is ready, been ready, can't stop grinning at his own reflection in spite of the disastrous morning, so finally, _finally_ he opens the bathroom door. 

He's expecting incredulous applause or delighted laughter. He's not expecting Natasha to clap her hand across her mouth. It makes him a little self-conscious, honestly, but then through her fingers she whispers, “You're beautiful.”

“Shut up.”

She shakes her head. “No. For real. So gorgeous. You look...damn. Mission accomplished.”

“Mission?” he asks, but she’s already grabbing his hand and pulling him out the door, but he stopes her. “Wait! One more thing.” Steve’s leather jacket is hung neatly in the closet and he slides it on. “Ok. Ready.”

“Damn right you are.”

She and Steve had gone ahead to the event early to make sure everything was in order, but Nat returned unexpectedly to “help” Buck get ready, and no matter how much he’d grumbled and fussed, he’s actually kind of grateful. He looks great, he knows it, is proud of it, but that morning and the night before have really done a number on him and he appreciates the moral support.

Until she’d texted him around noon he’d stupidly thought that he and Steve would drive in together, and for all he knows, that might have been the original plan before he’d been so super weird. In the middle of mowing the fucking lawn he’d happened to glance at his phone to see Nat’s text: _Boss man and I headed to venue. I’ll send someone to pick you up around 7.”_

What? Someone? If he needed any further proof that Steve’s was an invitation of convenience, this was it. Good reminder, though.  
So the driver that Steve hires for events like this chauffeurs them to the event space, a restaurant in the heart of the city with a reputation for high end booze and down to earth meals: Burgers, mac ‘n’ cheese, peach cobbler. Bucky’s legitimately excited for the food, and legitimately nervous about being around so much alcohol. The woman who greets him at the door flirts valiantly and he manages to be polite through his nerves, but then immediately texts Steve.

_Hey, I’m here._

_Ok_

_Where are you?_

Typing bubble...then it disappears, reappears, disappears again.

_Hang on._

He pockets his phone and orders a water, just something to have in his hand, but thank god he sets it down on the bar because he turns to see Steve descending the chrome staircase and Bucky’s knees give out, so he certainly would’ve dropped the glass. 

It’s stupid how good Steve looks in a suit, a grey three-piece and a navy tie. Buck forgets to be nervous, forgets his water, lets go of every single thing in his mind except the need to get his hands on the guy, not his boss or his Dom, just...Steve. It’s an overwhelming feeling, but then he watches as Steve catches sight of _him_ , and time slows.

Steve stumbles on the last stair but catches himself, hand on a railing, mouth hanging open as he proceeds to wade through the crowd. “You -” he starts, then halts a few feet away, hands in pockets, and it makes Bucky chuckle. 

“Well?”

“Well?” Steve's voice cracks and he clears his throat. “What?”

“What’d ya think?”

“Of you?”

“Sure.”

“I -” He steps forward into Bucky’s space, eyes sparkling. “You -” He brushes a thumb along Buck’s jaw. “You’re so…I mean, you’re alright.”

They both crack up, and it almost looks like Steve wants to lean in and kiss him, but he remembers himself and flashes such a lovely smile that Buck forgets about the whole wife thing, forgets how badly he wants a fucking drink, and just sort of floats. Flashing cameras interrupt his train of thought, but not his mood, and Steve rolls his eyes but the frown doesn’t quite stick. He just grabs Buck’s hand and they trot up the stairs to the section of the restaurant reserved for Steve’s event. 

It’s quieter up here but still busy, men and women in evening wear, an amusing contrast to the little cups of mac ‘n’ cheese, and hamburger hors d'oeuvres, but it’s warm, welcoming, laid back in spite of the decor. Very Steve. 

Steve gets him a drink, something delicious and sweet and fizzy and completely devoid of alcohol, and they stand at the periphery, observing. “I can't believe you trust me to talk to these people. Hell, _I_ don't trust me to talk to them.” 

Steve shakes his head absently. “You'll be fine. Great. You're very charming.”

“I'm….what?”

“Charming,” he repeats, chuckling. “You're surprised?”

He is, and flattered, and confused, but he gets his wits back quickly. “You're just not wrong very often.”

Steve's smile grows, darkens wickedly. “Watch your tone.”

“What do you mean, Sir?”

Buck watches, satisfied as Steve's pupils blow wide. “I should take you home and beat your ass.” 

“Is that a promise?” he challenges, stepping closer and Steve matches him, toe-to-toe.

“Only if you're very, _very_ good.”

They're inches away from each other, so close that Buck can practically taste the lime on Steve's lips. No booze though. It distracts him.

“You're not drinking?”

Steve shrugs. “Didn't wanna make you uncomfortable.”

Bucky's not sure what expression he's displaying but he can feel the stretch of his mouth and the tension in his chest. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” he replies softly. 

It's too tender. “Alright, boss. Shouldn't you be schmoozing or something?” 

Something flickers across Steve's face, like pain but duller, quickly covered by tired normalcy, an expression Bucky didn't realize had been gradually disappearing over the past few weeks, until now, when it looks so wrong on Steve's beautiful face. “Yeah.”

“You want company?”

Steve shrugs, hurtfully ambivalent. “If you want.” Bucky's considering ditching him and finding Nat, but then a dark-haired man renders that intention irrelevant. 

“El Capitan!” he shouts. 

Steve winces at the decibel range. Extending a hand he motors, "Tony. Good to see you.”

"And you. Who is this delicious person?" he asks nodding in Bucky’s direction.

Steve's eyes dart over to Bucky and it occurs to him that they've never defined the terms of their relationship for the public eye. 

Obviously at home they’re employer and employee, or Dom and sub, but none of those are good explanation as to why he's attending the event as Steve's plus one.

“This is James Barnes," Steve says finally. "He's one of my employees, and a good friend.”

Tony's eyebrows soar, and Bucky's stomach is doing so many things at once he thinks he might puke. On the one hand, to be labeled an employee after all they've been through is surprisingly painful, but not untrue. On the other hand, Steve called him a good friend. Then again, with such a blatant lie by omission towards this Tony person, perhaps Steve was simply doing the same now with this half-truth. Regardless, Bucky extends a hand.

Tony takes it slowly and shakes for just a moment too long. “Tony Stark,” he says. “Pleasure to meet you.” 

Buck wants to be polite, wants to make Steve look good, but also Tony is surprisingly good looking and the last name rings a bell. “James," he says. "Tony Stark. Why does that name…?” And then it hits him like a ton of bricks. “ _The_ Tony Stark?”

The guy throws his head back and laughs. “I guess that depends.” 

“You guys created that Synergy system! Halo 2, right?” And just like that the smarmy expression falls from Tony’s face, replaced by genuine interest and a little shock. 

“You've know about that?”

“The New England Journal of Medicine did an article on it.”

“And you read it?” Steve asks incredulously at the same time Tony say, “What do you think?”

“So cool,” Bucky exclaims, and tries to keep his hand gestures calm-ish as he explains to a curious looking Steve, “Hearing aids are optimal for picking up speech, but if you want to listen to music, it's a different set of sounds to process. They used tech similar to noise cancelling headphones to create hearing aids that allow the wearer to adjust the level to enhance what they’re listening to, like with a car radio, on their smartphone. Hearing aids for listening to music. It's incredible.”

Tony and Steve are staring. 

“What?”

“Oh I like you,” Tony responds. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Steve twitches forward but Bucky’s faster, holding up his glass. “No thanks, I’m set.”

“How about just a chat, then?”

“I’d be honored. Steve, you good?”

“Great,” he says with a broad smile. “I should actually check in on some things. Tony, it was good seeing you.” And he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd.

Tony and Bucky talk for almost an hour, by the end of which Buck is 100% certain that Tony is flirting with him and 80% certain that he likes it. The other twenty feels bad, like he’s cheating on Steve for allowing the conversation to take place, but he’s not, at all. It’s not like he and Tony are going to sleep together, and Steve himself said that he and Buck were just friends, so why does it even matter? 

And if it doesn’t matter, why does he need so damn many excuses?

Eventually, Tony gets pulled away, and Buck goes looking for Natasha. She’s got her phone in one hand, texting one of the event planners, and a gin and tonic in the other, looking mesmerizing in a deeply low cut black suit. 

“This is crazy,” Buck murmurs as he slides next to her and surveys the crowd. “So many people. So many really fuckin’ rich people.”  
She chuckles. “Yeah I guess. You should see his art shows. It’s even crazier. Artsy people are weird already, and then add money to it…” 

Buck prays he’ll get to see one of those. “This is a shitty question,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “But what is the fundraiser benefitting?” 

“Recovery care for veterans. There are a couple of groups that Steve works with. Tony heads one of them creating prosthetics, some provide counseling, some PT...lots of good work.”

He watches Steve across the room. He’s effervescent, all jokes and polite engagement and it’s interesting to watch, but it makes Buck ache. The real Steve is sweet and talented and kind and a bit of a shithead and _so fucking sad_ but tries so hard to hide it...He’s so much more than the simplified persona he wears for the crowd, and Buck’s torn between wanting them to know that and wanting to keep the real version all to himself.

“You owe me a drink. A delicious, expensive, drink.” A smooth voice tinged with gentle humor interrupts his thoughts and the younger of the two men that appears beside them, a lithe, handsome black man, and the owner of the pleasant voice steps forward. 

“You don’t have to remind me. I’m a woman of my word.”

“You are most certainly not. You could lie to a polygraph and flirt your way into the pentagon. But I’m sure you’ll keep up your end of the bet.” She doesn’t laugh or blush, but there is a small smile as she leans up on her toes to kiss his cheek and Bucky might be the only person in the room who understand how fucking unprecedented that gesture is. It’s mind-blowing. Natasha rarely touches anyone. Bucky is of course the exception, and he’s very aware of the fact, but she kisses this guy. Voluntarily.

“James, this is Sam, he works for Tony.”

Sam grins at him and offers a hand. “Good to meet you, James.”

“Bucky. If she’s kissing you on the cheek, you should call me Bucky.”

Sam’s reply is a non-answer, instead introducing the man next to him, but Buck doesn’t miss the glance he shoots Natasha, or the twinkle in his eye. “This is Nick Fury.”

Bucky freezes. He remembers the name from a previous conversation, remembers Steve being loathe to work with the guy but Nat extends a hand and greets him genuinely. 

“Good to see you, Nick.” The guy is intimidating, tall, impeccably dressed, scarred over one eye.

“You look lovely, Natasha.”

“Thank you. And thanks for coming.”

“I suspect you were responsible for invitations. Does Steve even know I’m here?”

“Doubt it. He rarely checks the guest lists.”

Both Fury and Natasha chuckle, much to Bucky’s surprise. Nat is an asshole, but she’s totally loyal to Steve, sometimes to the point that it frustrates Buck when she won’t give up a secret or bend a rule, so to have her blatantly disobeying him like this is...confusing at best.

“Nick works for a... specialized branch of the government,” Natasha explains quietly. “Steve used to work for the same department, years ago, before Nick came along.”

“So why doesn’t he like you?” Bucky asks bluntly, and Sam looks a little shocked, but Fury just chuckles again.

“I appreciate the honesty.” He sighs before continuing. “My predecessor did him an unforgivable disservice.”

“Which is why I’m having trouble understanding your presence here.” Steve's voice is sharpened steel. Buck flinches but Fury barely reacts. Natasha calmly takes Sam by the hand and leads him away. 

“I'm here as a patron of the event,” Fury responds. Even, professional. 

“Why?” 

“It's a good cause, and we have money to give. We owe you.”

“I don't want your pity,” Steve growls but Nick just shrugs. 

“But I'm guessing your people are interested in our money. Besides. I had to talk to James.”

“Me?” Bucky's so surprised his voice very nearly cracks. 

Nick considers him seriously, silently, before saying, “Of course. The survivor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.digitaltrends.com/wearables/halo-2-smartphone-hearing-aid/


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! This chapter has some vivid description of injury, fyi. 
> 
> It’s scary and stressful but TRUST ME, YOU GUYS KNOW I CAN’T STAY ANGSTY FOR TOO LONG WITHOUT SOME SEX OR FLUFF, and I promise, both of those will happen soon.

“The survivor,” Nick says. “That incident… It's pretty famous.” 

“Incident,” Buck whispers. “You mean my family’s murder.”

Nick just nods, not rising to the bait. “Your case changed the way we deal with that kind of crime. We still study it, and him, to this day.”

“Oh, great,” Bucky bites out, expecting surprise or anger from the other man, and he doesn’t care. “Then you’re aware he’s escaped.”

Infuriatingly, what he gets is a smile, rueful, tired but proud, and then, “Yeah. I was hoping for your help with that.”

“No.” Steve steps between them, talking too fast. “He’s not interested.” 

Nick opens his mouth but Buck gets there first. “You think I can help?”

He nods. “Just like your father.”

“My…”

“He worked for us.”

“But he was a professor.”

“Yes. And.”

There’s a pinch, a thrum behind Bucky’s sternum, excitement and anguish and nervousness and he steps forward into it.

“I will, if you put guards on Steve’s house, on him and Nat.’

“Done and done. In fact, you’ve noticed one of our guys several times, in that Impala.”

“That’s _yours_?”

“Technically it’s the federal government’s. But yeah. We keep her around.”

“Fuck,” Bucky breathes. 

“James, you have a chance to do something good here. You haven’t had an easy life, but if you’re ready, there’s work for you to do.”

“Leave him alone!” Steve shouts, drawing stares and Buck puts his hand on the other man’s arm. It takes him a second to speak. For a moment, the terrible heat of empathically forced memories starts to simmer in the nape of his neck, but it fades, drifts off, and he prays he’s just imagining things.

“Jesus, Steve, calm down. It’s my choice. I want to talk to him.”

“Then you’re an idiot,” Steve says, voice strangely more air than tone, and Bucky spins to look at him, wants to understand, wants that not to hurt so damn bad, but Steve is already gone.

Nick watches, eyes surprisingly sad. 

“What?” Buck growls, fueled by hurt, but Fury just shakes his head. “Then tell me about my father.” It’s impertinent making demands of someone with so much power, and he responds unexpectedly. 

“I’ll do you one better. I’ll help you figure it out.”

When Buck gets home, late and alone (he’d left Nat and Sam bumping shoulders at the bar), he grabs the lemonade powder, pulls out his computer, and stacks pillows against the wall behind his bed to lean on. 

He’s got some research to do. 

At first it's infuriating. Buck's never really done more than a basic Google search, but after a few articles on coding and encryption, and a few pieces of paper that Nick had slipped into his pocket lined with passwords and cyphers, things begin to clarify. 

The second system he hacks into has a file, his father’s work compiled, and Buck reads it voraciously. George worked as a professor, that he remembered. He was also a powerful Empath, but Bucky hadn't been aware that his dad had been an invaluable tool to the federal government: interrogating suspects, vetting politicians... Big decisions for powerful people. 

What made him remarkable though, was his work for those left powerless. Bucky’s parents created a foundation that worked to find families and schools for children with special abilities who’d been turned away from their own homes. 

They’d succeeded, too. If the spreadsheet Bucky’s blinking rapidly at is correct, his parents helped almost a thousand kids find safety and security, and many of those kids grew up to be a remarkable people. Buck recognizes a few of the names: famous musicians, several athletes, and a handful of others, scholars and doctors and artists.

Into a different database. The password takes him just two tries.

The only other Empath that had worked for the government in the past thirty years was Richard Alptraum - the man who’d killed them. By sheer force of will, Bucky reads the file. Alptraum had been swinging votes for a truly evil politician, in races and in Congress, and Bucky remembers the time, vaguely from his own life but more potently from the news and school. Years of women’s liberation, immigration reform, racial justice rolled back, not only dismantled but undermined. A dark era. It had come on slowly, but ended abruptly with the election of their most recent president, who has since been reinstating those inalienable rights. 

Buck had no idea all those evils were the fault of these two evil men, men with different kinds of power, which they abused grossly and unabashedly. Alptraum lost his position with the federal government at the advice of Bucky’s father, who’d figured out the scheme. 

Buck’s father had saved their country.

A soldier, just like Steve. 

He takes a shower. After, staring at his own reflection in the steamy mirror, nose like his dad, his ma’s eyes, he can’t help but let the memories wash over him like waves. Buck remembers staying up late and talking to his dad, about stars, and work, and family, and pain, and cars, and animals, and, and, and...he’d been an insatiably curious kid, and it doesn’t seem like he’s lost that yet. He just let it sleep for a decade.

And his mother. God, she’d been so fucking good to him. There are a million memories he has of his his childhood, meals and birthdays and adventures in the woods...she’d taken him everywhere. To the laundromat, to the grocery store, to Coney Island. Sometimes he was a hellion, but she took him anyway. “You’ve got to see everything,” she’d said, and damn, did he.

Through the anguish of his loss comes shame, regret for misspending so much of his life after they’d given him so many gifts, but he has to dismiss it for fear of finding a liquor store and inhaling it. There’s more to do, to research, but he can’t. Not right now. 

Feeling raw and oversensitive, he dresses in soft pajamas and his gym shoes and jogs back out into the night, so late it’s early: dark but waking up. For once, his brain goes quiet. Just birds and a vague smoky smell and dew dampening the toes of his sneakers. Occasionally, a Steve related thought will drift in, but he lets those go too, weighted too heavy with questions and hopes and doubt to do him any good at the moment.

Out of one neighborhood, into the next. A memory, a dream, floating past like smoke.

Smoke.

Shit.

He speeds up as the smell gets stronger, sees the tendrils above the buildings turn into clouds, and then close enough to see the flames licking out of a window, and people begin to run past him. 

A man is still standing too close to the small building, only three stories thank god, and sirens are already wailing into the morning, but tears are pouring down his face. “Maya!”

He’s small, elderly, but if there weren’t still people pushing out, past him, shoving his frail body back, it’s obvious he would have gone back in. Bucky grabs him as the last one passes to keep him from doing just that. 

“What!? What’s happening?”

“Maya! Sinai! They’re still in -”

He should wait for more information but he doesn't, too wrapped up in things he should've done or left alone, drowning in the remembrance of his beautiful parents, and haunted by the whisper of a thought, Nick’s voice, _”There's work for you to do.”_ Something more.

The apartment building is open, thick frame and scratched door and there’s crap in the threshold, a jacket, a shoe, papers trampled into the hall. The debris thins out as he sprints down the corridor and the worry that he’s not sure exactly which apartment Maya is in fades as wailing reaches his ears. The door won’t budge and someone is pounding on the other side. 

“Get back!” Bucky hollers, and tries desperately to wait to the count of three before hauling back and kicking the door in. 

It’s enough. The thin woman with the tiny ball of crying blankets in her arms are crouched to one side. Flames dance across the carpet, and the woman’s choking, coughing, gasps as new air reaches her lungs but she shoots him a grateful look and stumbles out and back towards the front door. 

His heart is racing, adrenaline making him hyper aware. Maybe that’s how he hears it. A small sound amidst the roaring spreading inferno.

He takes the stairs two at a time, hollering something he can’t recall, afterward. It’s getting hot, no flames here, but coming fast. A shouting, but fading, “No, no, not like this. Please! Help!” He knows that feeling, feels it with them, that terror, that hope, the realization of something to lose just a moment before it’s lost. 

A small frame is crawling out the door and into the stairwell. Fifteen, sixteen, maybe. Broken leg.  
Bucky’s got her in his arms in a heartbeat, thundering back down.

“Quickest exit?” he pants, winded from nerves instead of fatigue.

She shakes her curly head. “Front door.”

“That can’t be up to code,” Bucky mutters, and she snorts, a dryly humorous sound as he shoves the stairwell door open with his shoulder so hard it flies off the hinges and lunges back into the first floor hallway.

It’s just fire, at this point. The whole carpet and licking up the walls. Nope. 

He feels the door next to him with a forearm, still cool to the touch, and kicks it in. Smoke comes rolling out, the fire’s in here too, but not as bad, still creeping from the adjacent room and Buck sprints to the living room window just as the couch catches. Breaks the window with an elbow. Jesus. It’s going so fast. Checks below. Pavement, but not high up. The bookshelf beside them starts to go, crackling, almost a pleasant sound. 

“Roll when you hit,” he says and she nods, looking scared. 

“What’s your name?” he asks. 

“Becca.”

“Becca. You’ll be fine,” he smiles, and tosses her, as far as he can without hurting her too badly, putting distance between her and the flames. The bookshelf creaks. He pauses to listen for anyone else. 

The bookshelf snaps, falls, pins him to the wall.

\--

_There are things he only half-remembers from before, faded by time, and others, good memories, hazy from drugs, but still worth remembering._

_He remembers his first time on a motorcycle. John was a good guy; worked as a mechanic at the same shop as Buck. Had a family, carried pictures of his kids in his wallet, and he treated Bucky like he wasn’t a fuck up, which was unusual and surprisingly refreshing. They’d found a cheap bike on Craigslist, fixed it up, taken turns tearing down an empty stretch of road outside the city._

_He remembers lying on the fire escape of one of his many apartments, sharing a large pizza with a roommate, a sassy girl named Hanna, one of the few sober ones, though her bipolar helped her fit right in. She was smart as a whip, held a steady job, and didn’t take any of his shit. He’d liked her. He’d asked, one time, why she stayed with him and the other guy they lived with, pointed out what a mess they were, that surely there were better random roommates, but she just shook her head and peeled the pepperoni off her slice to eat first. “I like you.” “I’m a mess.” “‘S why I like you. Honest. This is life, James,” she’d said with a shrug. “It’s messy. But we’ll be alright.”_

_**Fucking idiot. God fucking damnit Buck, what the fuck were you thinking?** _

_He remembers writing to Natasha on the backs of work order request forms from his construction job. Remembers how much he looked forward to her responses, even when he cared about nothing else._

_Eating frozen bananas, shirtless, in the hot kitchen of one of his first real apartments._

_**Bucky. Please. Wake up.** _

_Playing checkers with his ma._

_**If you don’t wake up, Natasha’s gonna kill you.** _

_Reading on the floor with his dad._

_**Please, Buck** _

_Steve. ___

_The way Buck catches him glancing over, sometimes, too fondly. The way he laughs when he’s caught off guard. The way his eyes sparkle when he forgets about that heavy heart. The barely there noises he’s started making when they fuck._

_A day in Steve’s office. Bucky’d been curled beneath the window in a pool of sun like a cat, and Steve had glanced up at him a half a dozen times in as many minutes until Buck huffed, “Get over here would ya?” Steve had wrapped around his back and they’d fallen asleep on the rug and Bucky had dreamed that Steve whispered “Thank you” into his hair. ___

_**Please, Buck. I can’t do this again.** _

“I can’t do this again, Buck. Please wake up.”

He hears that in real life, fuzzy but focusing, then beeping and shuffling and further-off voices. He hurts, but distantly, through a cloying haze that feels exquisite and yet somehow, terribly wrong. Scent returns next: antiseptic and rubber, but something like home, too, something warm and safe - Steve, who whispers, “Please.”

Bucky’s thirsty as fuck, not even a hundred percent confident he’ll be able to talk but he sure as hell tries. “Quit your bitchin’.”

There’s a gasp and a squeeze to his arm. “Buck?”

“No, it’s Bono.”

A huff. Finally, finally, Bucky opens his eyes.

Hospital. He’d figured that much. The paneled ceiling floats into view, door to a bathroom, beeping monitor, a bandaged left arm, swaddled from wrist to shoulder, hurts like hell, fuck, and then he turns the other way to blink at Steve.

Who looks fucking awful. 

Ok, that’s not true, he looks goddamn beautiful, but worn to shit. His eyes are red, and circled with bruise-y looking rings. His hair’s a mess, brow pinched, bottom lip a little swollen from where Bucky knows he worries it between his teeth when he’s stressed.

“Hey,” Buck croaks with what he hopes is a smile.

“Hey,” Steve whispers back. Leans up. Kisses him. 

Sweet and chaste but Bucky understands by the way Steve’s lips tremble a little that things have been bad. There’s no question. They’re not sceneing, and Steve’s kissing him anyway. In spite of the tubes and wires, Buck lifts a hand to touch his cheek, and the other man makes a little noise of hurt, or relief. When they finally separate he digs his phone from the sheets by Buck’s hip and starts to stand. “Lemme get a nurse and then we gotta call Natasha.”

“Wait,” Buck murmurs as loud as his throat allows. “On the nurse. Lemme talk to Nat first.” 

Steve eyes him suspiciously, before huffing in acquiescence and flopping back into the chair. 

Bucky closes his eyes and waits while Steve dials. 

“He’s awake.”

Muffled shouting. Receiver pressed to Bucky’s ear and he takes the phone to hear, “James Buchanan fucking Barnes I swear to god -”

“Jesus woman. Calm down,” he jokes, but there’s as hiccup that might be a sob. “Nat. Natasha. I’m ok. I’m fine.”

Silence for a beat, then two, then Natasha says, “It’s been three days.”

There’s nothing to say to that so he waits, and in the stillness, realizes that the fog drifting across the folds of his brain is pain medicine. Fuck. _Fuck_. He doesn’t want it, wasn’t asked. He’s sober. Gotta stay sober.

He’s fine, and just to prove it Bucky goes to take the phone in his other hand and shouts in pain, dropping it as searing pain rips up his left arm.

Steve grabs the phone and Bucky distantly hears him explaining to Nat, says he’s ok, they’ll call later, but Buck interrupts. “Gimme.”

“Buck, you -”

Bucky socks him in the arm as hard as he can, sending Steve’s chair sliding over and the bed rattling back a little. “Give. Me.”

Steve hands it over, gritting his teeth

“Natasha, listen. I’m fine, I just moved my arm and I wasn’t ready. I’m gonna go now, talk to Steve, get some sleep, and I’ll call you when I wake up, ok?” 

“Alright. But if it takes you longer than 12 hours I’m coming up there my damn self, security clearance be damned.”

“Security?...I love you, angel girl.”

She sounds profoundly grateful. “Love you, asshole.”

He lets the phone drop onto the bed and closes his eyes again. Things are coming back. The fire. The fundraiser. The fight. “Why would Natasha need security clearance?”

“This isn’t a public hospital.”

“What, like a VA hospital or something?”

“Try CIA.”

Flabbergasted, Buck squints up at him. “What?”

Steve just shrugs. “They’re the best in the country.”

“Then why am _I_ here?”

Steve bristles. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m nobody. There are free walk-in clinics all over the city. I’ve been in more than a few. Why am I _here_?”

Glaring, the blond growls, “What the fuck’s the matter with you?”

“Well apparently I’m an idiot,” he says bluntly. It won’t get out of his head now.

“Quit -!” It comes out an aborted shout and Steve shifts back in his chair, cheeks reddening, clenching his fists so hard his knuckles are turning white and when he opens them again there are little purple lines from his nails on his palms. “You have no _idea_ -” Uneven breaths pull through his nose, a marked lack of control, and Bucky may be buzzing on pain meds, but it’s still nerve-wracking and awe-inspiring to watch, and it wakes him right the fuck up.

There’s no clarification, and Bucky can tell Steve wants to leave but can’t quite force it, though he does stand and pace, displaying wrinkled jeans and a t-shirt, which is not something Buck has seen before; Steve’s either shirtless or dressed like a professor, but not now. Not when he’s been sitting with Bucky for three days. 

Three days. And Buck starts to calm down enough to admit that’s not something someone would do for a person they actually think is an idiot, and he feels kind of bad for being a dick after the guy’s been through three days of worry, gets out, “I’m sorry -” when a new voice interrupts him.

“You’re awake!”

"Sam! What the fuck are you doing here?"

Sam beams at him. "I’m so fuckin’ glad you're ok."

"Thanks to you," Steve nods and Bucky quirks a questioning brow.

"I was in on your surgery. Helped design the alloy in your arm.”

"The what in my arm?"

"The fact that there’re only minor burns on that side of your body is, frankly, a freaky mystery. You lucked out like crazy, going under right as the fire department pulled up. The bookshelf shattered your humerus into a million pieces and your amplified strength gave us some unusual repair parameters, but I think we did well. You should have full use of the arm within a few months, though I should tell you, there are some visible external repairs, and the scarring will be pretty significant."

"Scarring," Bucky repeats numbly.

"Yeah. The fuck were you thinking?"

He’s sure there are feelings somewhere in his body about the realization that his arm is now a very different arm, but he can’t find them, nor give them a name. "There was a man...he was crying, someone was left inside, daughter and granddaughter, I think. And then I heard the other girl and I couldn't just leave her...Leave more people without a family...” He comes out of his staring match with a wrinkle of sheet to ask, “How is she?"

"Great," Sam grins. "Really great. She contacted Nat, wants to talk to you when you get out of here. Her name is Rebecca."

"Rebecca," Buck repeats. "Becca. Why does she wanna talk to me?”

"Uh, I’m guessing because you saved her life. Plus, she said you reminded her of someone..."

“Sure. I’m glad I got her in time."

Sam nods. "Nat said you were like that."

"What?" Buck laughs tiredly. "An impulsive idiot?"

"Nah," Sam counters softly. "Heart of gold."

"Yeah, right." 

"You think that being an addict that makes you a bad person?"

"I..."

Sam shakes his head emphatically. "Everyone’s got their shit, Buck, and even in your brokenness, you look out for other people. Nat told me you never really lost touch, through everything.”

Buck shrugs again, uncomfortable. "It was the least I could do. She loved me, invested in me, and all I did was bounce from job to job. Drug to drug.”

Sam rolls his eyes. "She told me how you'd call her at least once a month, or write letters just to check in, catch up."

"She's all I had."

"You were all she had. And you didn't let her down, Buck. You sent birthday cards…”

“Yeah, great friend I am sending her a piece of folded cardboard once a year.”

“Money to help pay for school..."

At that, Bucky chuckles. "Yeah. If she could've returned it I bet she would've, but I changed addresses so often she couldn’t find me.”

"She got that degree."

"And then some."

"You're a good friend."

"Eh. I'm alright," he smiles remembering Steve's comment about his attire from the fundraiser, casts a glance in his boss’s direction and the way Steve’s watching him makes him ask, "What?"

"I didn't know that," he replies quietly. "About Natasha. I mean, she talks about you fondly, which knowing Nat, is saying something, but I didn't realize..."

"We went through some shit, Steve. She took care of me, I tried to take care of her.” It weighs on his chest, sweet but too heavy. “So," he turns to Sam. "When do I get this fucking bandage off? When do I get out of here?"

Nonplussed, Sam glares at him. "Out of here? The fuck you think you're going?"

"Uh... I dunno? Back to work?"

"You are NOT going back to work," Steve interrupts. 

"What, you're firing me because I got myself caught on fire?" Buck argues incredulously. 

"NO! Not firing you! Jesus! Just...take it easy for a minute would you? You almost died." Steve sounds panicked, a breath from tears and Bucky looks away uncomfortably,responds, "No, I didn't.”

“Yeah,” Sam murmurs quietly, glancing back and forth between the two of them. “You did.” 

Silence falls, emphasizing the beeping of the heart monitor and the shuffling of feet and carts outside the door. “You look great, and I’m glad to see you up, but I’m gonna call one of the nurses in now, ok? Just so they can take a look at you.”

“Yeah,” Buck whispers, suddenly exhausted.

The nurse, Adeline, is kind, older, reminds Bucky of a neighbor he had as a child. She checks his vitals, his IV, his temperature, with firm and gentle competence. Steve had excused himself to shower and change, promised to be back soon, so it's a private conversation when she says, "He was awful worried about you, honey."

"Steve?"

"Is that your boyfriend's name?"

"He's not my -"

"Hush. I've been around long enough to know affection when I see it."

Bucky doesn't believe her, but what's he supposed to say? ‘Actually he just dominates me for fun?’ He keeps his mouth shut. 

“Thanks,” he attempts, shortly. The hope kind of hurts.

“He didn’t leave.”

“The hospital?”

“The room. 

“Oh.” It’s one syllable, but she clearly gleans something from it that he still doesn’t understand.

“Go easy on him.”

“You’re not the first person to say that to me, actually,” he says with a gentle smirk, but it fades as he wonders why no one’s asking Steve to go easy on him. Adeline answers anyway.

“You’ve got something he doesn’t, sweetie.”

“Which is?”

“Proof that hope isn’t always quite so fickle as it feels. You lived, hon’. You grew. He’s been stuck for a century.”

Defensive, Buck bristles, “No he hasn’t. He’s helped people. He’s painted. Funded charities. Saved my life.” 

That smile again, knowing. “Remind him then, love.”

Natasha shows up an hour later. She stands in the doorway, suspiciously bright eyed and still, until Buck murmurs, “Get over here, angel girl.” 

In an instant, she’s up on the bed, curled against his side, tucked beneath his good arm. He just holds her for a long while, reminding him of years ago in a frigid, tiny room. They lie together in comfortable silence and he relaxes as their breaths sync up until he feels dampness on his chest.

“Are you crying?”

“No,” she says angrily. “Fuck you.”

He kisses her hair. “I love you, too.”

They talk a little. She explains that Steve got her clearance, but she’s not sure how, that some important people must owe him a favor. Explains that they were worried they were going to have to amputate the arm. Tells him about Rebecca, and her shy phone call asking Nat about Bucky and when he’d be home. 

Sam swings by to check in on him again. Before he leaves he pecks Nat on the cheek. And she lets him, sits up, in fact, to get closer. Bucky stares open mouthed at his back as he retreats. 

“At the gala…”

“We had a few drinks.”

“You looked pretty cozy.” 

“Shut up.”

“Natasha. This is a big deal.”

They listen to the beeping monitors for a moment before she says softly. “I like him.”

“Good,” Buck whispers, afraid to break the spell.

“I’m scared.”

“You’re never scared.” 

She sighs, amused but he watches as her face falls. “That’s not true. I was terrified for you. And with Sam I’m scared of...I’ve never…” She makes a little growling noise that is definitely supposed to be frustration but it’s so cute it kind of misses the mark for him. “What if I’m bad at it?”

“Dating?”

“Yeah!”

“Oh!” Never in a million years would Bucky have guessed that that was the issue. He doesn’t mean to start laughing, but once he starts, he can’t really stop.

“Fuck you!” Nat hisses, swatting him on his good arm. 

“No! No, I’m sorry, it’s just…” He can’t continue though, little wheezings escaping him as he laughs too hard. “You’re like, the most terrifying person I’ve ever met, and you’re like, ‘Ah! Dating!’” 

She raises her eyebrows at his interpretation of her voice, far too high and affected to be accurate, but he can see the tiny crow's feet deepen at the corners of her eyes, amused 

He finally calms down enough to say, “You’re brilliant.” She tisks, and it brings him back into his body. “Natasha, you’re the most incredible person I’ve ever known. You’re resilient and intelligent and kind, though you’d kill someone for saying it. You’ve taken better care of me than anyone else in my life. You’re capable of anything. If you wanna date Sam, date him. And if you wanna love him, let yourself love him.”

Blinking rapidly a few times, she murmurs, “What if I break his heart? What if he breaks mine?”

Bucky shrugs. “Of course you will, from time to time, and vice versa. That’s life, angel girl. Breaks your heart. But…” And he thinks of Steve, of Steve’s angry vulnerability and beautiful confrontationalism, and how stupidly, ridiculously happy the guy makes him. “But if everything’s a balance, and that’s the bad, think of how fucking incredible the good will be.”

Staring, she starts four different sentences then gives up and rolls down from her legs-crossed ball to tuck herself against him again, firmly and more careful than necessary. They doze for almost an hour before she stirs and whispers, “The good will be terrifying.” He knows. Too good to trust. What if it fails? That fear is an intimate acquaintance. But then she says, “I think I want it anyway.”

He kisses her forehead half a dozen times, eyes closed against the pride threatening to leak out. 

They talk until Adeline shows up again to announce the end of visiting hours. Natasha thanks her with more affectionate sincerity than Bucky’s ever seen, and then she’s gone. He falls asleep.

When he wakes, Steve’s back, perched in the chair beside the bed, reading something on his phone. Buck just watches him for a while, absorbing the little details that he might have lost forever. Eyelashes. Sweep of hair. Laugh lines. Stubbled chin resting on paint-stained knuckles. He’s showered and changed into khakis and a sweater/button up combo, and he clues into the fact that Bucky’s awake when the injured man huffs. 

“What?” Steve murmurs, smiling.

“You're ridiculous,” Bucky mutters. Under all that dad-wear is a white tee, he knows, and he's feeling small suddenly, vulnerable, knows what he needs but can't ask, doesn't have the words so instead he tugs at the sweater. “Take this damn thing off.”

Eyebrows twitching up, Steve complies then watches with a soft expression as Buck tugs him closer by the collar to pop the buttons open, one handed. Steve gets his hand slapped for attempting to help so he just freezes, breath warm on Bucky's knuckles as he works. 

“Off,” he commands again, voice smaller now but Steve doesn't hesitate, tugs it off and Bucky grabs his shirtfront. “C’mere. Please.” 

Understanding dawns, sweet and warm across Steve's face. He slides onto the narrow bed and throws an arm across Bucky's chest but Bucky still feels strange, off kilter until Steve whispers, “I could fuckin’ kill you for being so careless, but I'm so, so proud of you.” 

Bandaged arm be damned, Bucky wriggles closer into Steve who wraps him tight. He doesn't kiss him again, they're not dating or sceneing after all, but then again Bucky finally feels safe enough passed the fuck out so he doesn't feel Steve pressing reverent kisses to his temple in the quiet hours between nighttime and morning. 

\--

The corridors do an adequate job of masquerading as a civilian hospital: carts and nurses and white boards with matrices of names, but the room that Adeline wheels him into is less so.

It's huge, circular, with windowed viewing galleries looking down onto the main floor. It seems like maybe they're trying to pretend it isn't an operating room, though, because today there are several stainless steel tables in the room supporting rectangular tubs of various liquids and Buck blinks around incredulously.

"What the hell?" he mutters and Adeline moves his IV stand out of his way.

“Tissue repair,” she responds, as if that answers everything and gestures to his gown, which she then manhandles off his upper body and ties the sleeves around his waist. There are some burns on his side treated with salve and dressed with gauze, and since yesterday when Bucky requested a lower dosage and a less addictive pain killer, even the small ones ache quite a bit as he stands up. The arm is nearly unbearable. “Will it hurt?” he asks softly, staring at a speck on the blue-green tile floor.

“Yes,” she answers, no inflection, just fact, and he breathes deeply in a grasp for control.

He wishes Steve were here, and immediately feels stupid. Steve had been gone when he woke up. Left a note, “Be back soon. Take care of yourself. ~ S”, and Bucky knows the guy has shit to do, hell, he’s an artist, and the salesman of said art, in addition to running a charity, and he’s spent every moment of the last few days at Bucky’s bedside. It’d be concerning if he wasn’t trying to get other shit done now that Buck’s awake. It would mean the parameters of their relationship are actually much different than the ones they're currently operating under.

But he’s strong. Knows it. It takes strength to get sober, to live through what he has, so he can get through anything. Adeline supports his weight as she leads him to the first basin, and when they reach it, she unwraps his arm. 

He notices the smell first, antiseptic and raw and it makes him gag, but the lack of sensation in certain areas weirds him out more than anything else, and it’s what tricks him into looking down even though he’d told himself not to.

This time, he does vomit, into a magically appearing waste basket that Adeline holds out for him. His arm is not his arm anymore. 

Most of the flesh remains, but mottled, burned beyond belief and already scarring. They must’ve put some crazy powerful shit on it to accelerate the healing like this, but it’s still horrifying. The only breaks in the scar tissue are caps at his shoulder and elbow, and a circlet at his wrist, all metal, the alloy Sam mentioned, he’s guessing. “Holy fuck,” he whispers. 

“You were lucky the fire department got there when they did. And,” she adds, “That that boyfriend of yours is so persistent. This hospital is one of the best in the world.”

“He’s not -” Buck grinds out, but then she lowers his arm into the first treatment, and he groans instead.

“Shhh.” He resurfaces from the pain but not the liquid, to Adeline rubbing slow circles in his back. “You’re alright. It’s fading already.” It is, the scalding receding into a dull ache, and he holds himself still and silent, arm submerged, for the next three minutes it requires. 

The next basin barely hurts at all, a cooling blue liquid that weirds him out more than anything, but he only gets to swish through that one for sixty seconds. The next, a viscous yellow concoction hurts about as badly as the first but he’s ready for it this time and hisses way through. He watches the end of the row of basins inch closer as they get through the fourth, fifth, and on the last, the sixth, he notices that Adeline grips him a little more tightly as she lowers his arm in, and he gets why as soon as his skin touches the liquid. 

It feels like his arm is on fire again. It takes a few seconds to realize he’s screaming, and he tries to stop, but it dwindles to a wail before he can get his damn voice to switch off. It’s three minutes of pure torture. When he crumples back into the wheelchair Adeline catches his arm and holds it aloft to spray the stinging skin with something that immediately lessens the pain, but doesn’t eliminate it entirely. He also has a bruise on the back of his hand from where she’d held him still and he realizes he hadn’t gone easy on her, jerked with every ounce of amplified muscle he has, and she hadn’t budged.

“You…” He stares, awed.

She smiles crookedly. “Why do you think I was assigned to you?”

He makes a sound he thinks might be a small sob. 

“Why are you crying, sweetie?”

He shrugs, and this time manages to chuckle through his tears. “It hurts.” He’s not entirely talking about his body. 

He can tell she understands in the way he rewraps his arm, gently, and he leans back in his chair, observing the room to distract from the constriction of raw flesh, noticing someone in the observation wing, tall, a flash of blonde, green shirt, and then they’re gone. 

When they get back to the room, Steve's waiting for him. Adeline starts to help Buck up from the chair but Steve steps in, extending an arm. "I've got him ma'am. Thank you," and she leaves, throwing a soft look over her shoulder. 

"Buck?" 

"Hm?"

Bucky glances up at him from staring blankly into space. He hurts. He's tired. Steve looks distractingly lovely in a forest green sweater Buck hasn't seen before, but pale. Shaken.

"Come on. Let’s get you into bed.”

“I’m fine.”

“I know,” Steve says quietly and takes his arm. Bucky’s not fine, he’s trembling from exhaustion and overstimulation (not even the fun kind), but Steve’s presence next to him and then beside him as they slide into the narrow bed together is comforting beyond words. Buck’s so fucked up that he doesn’t appreciate until much later how Steve pulls him close without asking or waiting, holds him tight, runs fingers through his hair, responds to every whimper, every plea with achingly tender words. “I know, Buck. I got ya. I know.”

\--

He wakes the next morning to Steve perched on the chair by his bed looking inordinately pleased with himself.  
“What’re you so happy about? And what smells like heaven?”

“Cap’n Crunch french toast. And bacon. And cheese fries.”

“Marry me,” Buck murmurs, struggling to sit up, and Steve blushes beautifully, glancing at the IV drip. 

“You’re high.” 

“As a kite. Feed me.” 

He means ‘Give me the food,’ but what he gets is much more literal. Steve unloads a bag full of tupperware onto the bedside table, opens everything up (the smell is unbearably delicious) then gets up to wash his hands, ordering, “Don’t you dare,” without even looking back when Buck reaches for a fry. Any attitude Bucky might have had fades immediately when Steve plops back down beside him and holds a fry to his lips, which of course he accepts. “Can feed myself you know,” he grumbles, but his heart’s not in it and they both know it. 

So Steve feeds him. Feeds him bits of french toast wrapped in bacon and dipped in syrup that Bucky licks sneakily from his fingertips if the other man leaves his hand there too long, and cheese fries. Occasionally brushes strands of hair from Bucky’s forehead. Eats between feeding his sub. “Brat,” Steve murmurs fondly as Buck nips at his fingers. 

“This is great.”

“Glad you like it. Found the recipe online.”

Buck blinks up shyly. “Thank you. You’ve been...amazing, this whole time.” The realization settles in, not quite ruining the mild subspace he’s in, but dampening it for sure. “And I’m just -”

He’s not even sure what he was going to say. An employee? A friend? It doesn’t matter though, because Steve presses the pads of his fingers against Buck’s lips, silencing him. “You don’t have to thank me, and you’re not just anything.”

“What’s gonna happen? After they let me out. I can’t work. Not yet. Not for a bit.” 

“So?”

“So...I could pay rent I guess. I’m not even sure what I have in my account...I don’t spend anything, so I probably have enough for a few months -”

“You don’t have to pay rent!” Steve cries, horrified, like it hadn’t even occurred to him and he’s appalled at the thought.

“But -”

“Stop. Stop talking about it. You’re not paying rent. I just want you to...just come home.”

“Home,” Buck says, and he wants to cry. Must be the drugs.

All the tension drains from Steve’s body as he echoes it back. “Yeah. Home.”

Bucky nods. “Alright.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this one's kind of brief, but I wanted to give you guys something before the week starts. happy sunday!

It’s beautiful out, spring air dancing across him as he works.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“The fuck’s it look like?” Buck calls down. “Painting!”

Steve’s voice is a rumble, a growl, an earthquake behind flesh and bone and Buck wouldn’t have been able to disobey if he’d wanted to. “Get down here. Now.”

One handed, he shimmies down the ladder, dropping the paint brush back into the can of stain as he steps off the bottom rung. Three quarters of the fence looks beautiful, the reddish stain shimmering in the sunlight and he smiles at it, pleased. “Looks nice, right? Nat helped me pick out the color, probably ‘cause it matches her damn hair -”

“Barnes.”

Not James. Not Buck. Not baby or sweetheart. Distancing language. 

“What?” 

He finally turns away from the fence to see Steve who’s clearly clenching his fists in his pockets as he repeats himself. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I said -”

“I know what you said. I hired temps to do that.”

“Yeah, I sent them home.”

Dangerously quiet, Steve asks, “You what?”

“Sent them home?”

Ok, so there are a couple of things going on here. 

First of all, Bucky is so fucking stir-crazy he’s about to crawl out of his skin. He’d stayed in bed the whole week resting, and his arm is almost completely healed, though the new normal is a little harder to look at. The scarring has smoothed down, though there’s much less feeling there, and no denying the bands of metal supporting the alloyed joints beneath.

In that week he’s read four full length novels, a year’s worth of Scientific American, and had Sam email him the schematics for his new arm so he could study them. He’s considering improvements already.

Additionally, the research he’d done the night of the fire lit a blaze of it’s own, and Buck can’t let go of the thought that he might be able to do something real with his life, something that makes a difference, so on his second sleepless night home, he’d emailed Nick. Asked if there was any way he could be of assistance.

Bucky’s not an idiot. He knows the healing limb will impede his ability to do things like physically rescuing people for awhile, but Nick had sent him an email anyway. A test, it turned out: the technological equivalent of an obstacle course, or a scavenger hunt. A case.

With his newly obtained access to several federal databases, Bucky had solved a cold, twenty six year old murder from the comfort of his bedroom floor. In forty eight hours. 

Nick hired him on the spot.

So he’s been working for Fury’s division, but hasn’t mentioned it to Steve, and it’s a confusing situation. On one hand, he’s really proud of the work he’s doing, but on the other, he’s pretty sure Steve is going to lose his shit when he finds out, and Bucky isn’t really looking forward to a fight, _except_...

Steve hasn’t touched him since they got home.

Not a kiss, not a soothing hand through his hair, nothing. Buck’s tried to start a scene a few times but when he asks to play, Steve just shakes his head with a weird, sad smile, and passively patronizing comments like “Wait on it” or “Not yet”. It feels like shit. Bucky is fairly sure it’s not the aesthetics of the arm that bother Steve and more the worry of injuring him further, but Buck can’t help but feel wounded. Obviously, he can’t bring it up or discuss it, so he’s playing it the mature way: provoking Steve until he snaps. 

Judging by the look on his boss’s face, he may have just succeeded.

“They sucked, Steve. And besides, I’m totally capable of coming back. Look!” He brandishes the arm, rolling his wrist, opening and closing his hand, wiggling his fingers then flipping Steve off before bringing the limb back to his side. “Good as new. Ish.”

“You’ve barely been home a week.”

“Which is how long Adeline suggested I take off.”

“I’m pretty sure she didn’t mean jump right back into physical labor!”

“Of course she did, Steve! She knows who I am! And so do you,” Buck adds more quietly. “I’m crawling outta my skin, man. Been reading like crazy, workin’ on this project for Nick, but I just...I gotta move my body. Especially after all those pain-killers…”

The emotional load of that statement processes through Steve’s expression: Understanding, regret, concern, but he settles on, “Project for Nick?”

Whoops. Guess they’re talking about it.

“Yeah, he gave me a few assignments, help keep my mind off things. I’m doing pretty well, he says...I dunno…”

Just kidding. They’re not talking about it. Steve looks agonized for a moment, then ice cold. Shut down. Distant. A punctuation on a conversation Buck didn’t even realize he was dying to have. “Fine,” and completely contrary to plan, it’s Bucky and not Steve who snaps.

“That’s it? You’re done? I’m too broken for the almighty Steve Rogers? Cool! Great! Thanks! It’s not fair!” Buck screams. “I’m trying so fucking hard! I lost my goddamn arm! And you know what? It’s ok! I’m ok with it! Broken inside and out! I match!” 

“What are you talking about?” Steve whispers, horrified.

“You won't touch me, won't fucking _look_ at me the same. I can't just sit in my fucking room, alone, thinking about all the things I _should've_ done! You can't ask that of me! I want a fucking drink! I want my arm to stop hurting! But you know what I want more than anything? I want you to stop shutting me out! You can't just ignore me every time I piss you off! Actually,” he gasps, laughing bitterly as the truth hits him. “You can do whatever you want. You're the boss.”

“I...I wasn't…” Steve stammers but Bucky feels like he's crumpling in on himself. 

“Forget it.” He turns back to the fence, to the ladder, to the job. 

“Buck.”

“I said forget it, Steve. It’s fine; you don’t want me anymore. Did you ever?” He’s just murmuring to himself at this point, foot on the first rung, paintbrush in hand. 

“I do want you!” It’s the tone, a panicked shout, that has Buck glancing over his shoulder, hating the spark of hope dancing through chest, letting it stoke the hurt in his voice. 

“Prove it.”

A breeze sighs through the yard, sending a little shower of petals from the tree hanging over the fence. Steve takes the brush from Bucky’s fingers and drops it back into the can, then asks carefully, “Your hand hurt?” Buck shakes his head then watches in awe as Steve takes Bucky’s charred left hand in his own paint-splattered right one. “Good.”

They walk together into the house, Steve brushing curtains open as they pass through the corridors, letting the light in, closing the door to his bedroom firmly behind them. He crosses the room but Bucky doesn’t join him, stands in front of the door instead, arms folded, still scowling. He doesn't dare hope, doesn't want to think that maybe Steve actually fucking cares, but then again, here they are. Together, now, once more. 

Steve takes far too long to cross the room, empty his pockets on the bedside table, open the curtains, but he does finally face Bucky, opens his mouth, even holds out his hands as if trying to speak with them instead, and he’s struggling. Buck watches in awe as the layers of facade melt from Steve’s face one by one: frustration, anger, worry hovers for a moment before it, too, is gone, and Steve closes the space between them, indifferent to the way Buck hasn’t moved from folded arms. 

“You make me fucking crazy,” he says.

It’s the only right thing to say, honestly, because it cracks Bucky up. 

“You’re one to talk.”

He’s smiling a little. “I know. I know.” But then, “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I’ve been...I treat you...fuck.” He wipes his hands on his pockets then tucks them inside roughly and stares down at the floor, drops his voice to a whisper. “I was really, really scared, Buck, and I...I -” His voice catches, almost a sob, and that jolts Buck forward a step, concerned but not thawed, as Steve scrubs a hand across his eyes and leaves it there.

“At the hospital. You said, “I can’t do this again.” Steve nods, eyes still covered. “Then what’s your fucking problem? Avoiding any affection unless we’re sceneing? Refusing to let me in?”

“I’m so fucking scared!” Steve shouts, dropping his hand, and Bucky’s shocked to see tears in the other man’s eyes. “Buck, you have no idea.”

He doesn’t. Could never see where this is going. Watches as Steve starts to pace.

“I thought you were dead! And you know what? I wanted to go with you.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Do you know how long I’ve avoided this? Decades. Multiple. Presidents pass, wars begin and end, I paint, I work, I try, just _try_ to make something of myself, earn this fucking bullshit extra time I have, and I didn’t _want_ it, not for years, and then here _you_ come along, with your beautiful eyes and that fucking smile, and you’re brilliant and so kind and I thought, there’s no way, no way he wants me and then you kissed me...” He brings his fingers to his lips. “You kissed me.”

“...you kissed back…” Bucky whispers.

“Of course!” Steve shouts. “Christ!” He closes the space between them and takes Buck’s face in his hands. The muscles around his mouth tremble and his eyelids flutter as he says, “I’ve wanted you since before I ever saw you. The brilliant boy Nat always talked about. And you’re even more wonderful, even better than she said.”

Buck blinks rapidly, sliding his hands up to hold onto Steve’s forearms. “What? But you...you introduced me as an employee.”

“I’m an idiot.”

“You never kiss me unless we’re sceneing!”

Steve crashes their lips together, kissing him thoroughly before pulling back to whisper, “I thought it was what you wanted.”

“What the fuck, Steve?”

“You left! At the fundraiser, you went with Tony…”

“You fucking dismissed me!”

“What was I supposed to say?! What am I supposed to say, Buck?” 

“Just fucking tell me how you actually feel, for once!”

Steve slips one arm around Buck’s back and presses the other to his chest, firm, grounding, and says, “I’m terrified and you’re out of my league and I’m in love with you.” He gasps, a sob or a laugh, but his expression is pure Steve, not a cover, not hiding, not safe. “I’m so fucking in love with you.”

“Oh,” Buck says softly, and leans up to cover Steve’s mouth with his own. 

There’s no way to truly understand what that confession cost Steve, but Bucky’s heart feels like it might burst with love and hope and genuine appreciation that he took that risk, because now, Buck is starting to understand. 

Steve is human, super, yes, but flawed too. He’s fearful and jaded and terrible at communication because of the fear and complexity of those feelings. And Bucky is not just an addict, not just a fuck up. He’s a whole person, with strengths and talents and Steve sees them, all of them, facets that Buck is only just discovering. They’re measurably good for one another. 

And with that understanding, Bucky melts into him, giving in completely. He sighs against Steve’s mouth and winds his arms around, up and under Steve’s shirt to get his hands on the skin there. “Can I?”

“Buck,” Steve whispers. “Yes.” So he does, peels Steve’s thin sweater up and over his head, letting it fall to the floor. For long minutes he lets Steve control the kiss. Buck can tell he’s been worried, can tell how much this arrangement had pained him, in the impossibly gentle and subtly dominating way he holds on, a hand to Bucky’s jaw and the other pressing them together tightly.

When Buck tries to lean back to remove his own shirt, Steve doesn’t let go at first. When he finally sighs and let’s Bucky step away, Buck smiles with fond wickedness, and slides to his knees. “Brat,” Steve smiles.

Eventually, he’s going to suck Steve’s cock, but for now, he needs to get his mouth on those abs. There are lines of muscle at his hips and striping his stomach and Bucky is never going to get tired of the sight. He nips at the skin right below Steve's belly button then works his way up, trailing tongue and then teeth up to his ribs, delighting at the way the small muscles there jump at the sensation. When he finally gets Steve all the way naked, which takes some time because he can’t keep his mouth off the man, he sits back on his heels to take in the full view. 

He’s built like a fuckin’ brick house, striations in the muscle evident even in his hips and forearms. The golden tan of his skin is highlighted by feather soft blond hair on his legs and it’s just one more place Buck wants to put his mouth. Steve’s body was created by the government, but it was maintained by the man himself, and it’s a fucking work of art. Maybe he says as much because there’s a small, hurt noise in the room - so unfamiliar that it takes several seconds to realize it’s Steve who made it, but he doesn’t look uncomfortable. In fact, he’s watching Bucky’s face with something akin to worship, so Buck leans in to take Steve’s cock into his mouth.

There’s a hiss as he slides down, but other than that, no sound as Buck sucks him off, which is only bothersome until Buck glances up and realizes that Steve is biting the shit out of his knuckle to keep from making any noise. 

Stumbling to his feet, Buck undoes his own pants as he goes, and shoves Steve towards the bed. “What the fuck?” Steve gripes amiably.

“You,” Bucky instructs. “Are going to fuck me. And you are going to let me hear you.”

“Wh - what?”

“I want to hear you, Stevie. Every sound.”

Steve looks stricken. Bucky kicks his boxers off and bends over the bed. 

There’s a rough breath from Steve, at the sight of Buck presenting himself. A good sign. Buck sticks the fingers of his good hand in his mouth, gets them spit-slick and dripping and reaches around to circle his hole. Steve gives a groan, golden and vibrant, like the plucked string of a cello. He slips one finger in and Steve whines. There’s shuffling, then shifting air, warmth, and then Steve’s hands on Bucky’s hips, ass, pulling him apart, and then a talented tongue working him open.

It’s amazing, and then Steve moans against him and Buck’s whole body convulses as his cock drools against the bedspread. “Fuck! Steve. You’re gonna have to hurry up. I’m not gonna…”

“You will not come without my permission,” Steve rumbles and Buck gasps, but grins against the comforter. There he is.

Steve gives him what he wants though, this one time, adding fingers and lube to speed up the process, and when he stands Bucky prepares himself but Steve says, “No. Up. On the bed. On your back.” Buck clambers up and then he realizes the impact of that statement: this time around, they’ll be face to face. The cocky bravado ebbs as that reality overwhelms him, so much so that when Steve pushes in, something on Buck’s face makes him say, “You ok?”

Buck nods fervently but can’t quite get the words out, and when Steve bottoms out he pauses, concerned. “I need to hear you say it, Buck. You look terrified.”

He works his jaw for a moment. “I need you,” he finally gasps, and Steve’s hips snap forward in a way that feels not entirely in his own control. “Please.”

Steve scans his face, reading, understanding, nodding. He obeys. 

Slow and deep, he fucks Bucky until they’re both covered in sweat and panting. Buck begs the entire time, so full and overwhelmed that he starts trembling, but Steve just wraps him up in strong arms, kissing his temples, licking into his mouth, and best of all, pressing his face into Bucky’s neck, little whimpers escaping as they both start to tense, and then, “Come for me, Buck.” 

The wave that crests hits them at the same time. Bucky freezes up. Steve shouts. Time stops; For one long, suspended moment, they watch each other, soft eyes and bitten lips and sinew stretched tight as their bodies let go.

When they can both breathe again, Steve starts to roll off, but Buck won’t let him, wraps a stubborn leg around his waist and looks Steve in the eye. 

“That was amazing,” Steve smiles.

Buck agrees wholeheartedly. “Incredible.” He pauses, needed to say it. “You said before, that you hadn’t wanted that extra time. That you wanted to go with me if I died.”

Steve nods slowly and Buck grabs his face in his hands. “You can’t think like that, Steve. Life is unpredictable, and you have so much to give the world -”

“Buck,” he interrupts gently. “You’ve lived a full life. A hard one. I know this. But I’ve lived dozens of them, so you gotta understand, when you go…”

“What if there’s someone else? Later. And you missed them.”

Steve shakes his head. “You’re it. And it’s ok if that’s not what you want. I’ll never pressure you into anything, force you to stay, just -”

It’s the best and worst possible answer. “I’m not fucking going anywhere, you idiot. I love you.”

Steve’s face is beautiful - Buck’s known that since the day they first met as a golden man in a homey kitchen - but when he smiles then, sweet and shy and relieved and exhausted, it’s more than beautiful. It’s home.

\--

When Bucky opens to door, the kid is shuffling her sneakers on the front stoop, wrapped in a too-large hoodie, brown hair peeking from beneath a knit cap. She looks every bit the sullen teenager, standoffish and cool, but when she sees Bucky’s face she starts to smile.

“Hey.”

“Becca. Hi.”

 

She wriggles for another moment, indecisive, before lunging forward and hugging him.

“Hi.” 

“Come in.”

He leads her through the house and into the kitchen, and doesn’t miss her wide-eyed gaping at the surrounding architecture. He doesn’t blame her, he still does it, and he’s been in the house for months. 

“It’s really good to see you,” he says, honestly, and it is. “Can I get you anything to drink?

“Ummm, a gallon of coffee?”

Buck chuckles. “Comin’ right up.” 

She plops at the kitchen table and folds her legs in the chair, setting her backpack on the floor, and watches him intently as he sets some dark roast to brew, stares until he joins her at the table. She’s small, but there’s something about her that feels brazen, vibrant - piercing eyes, omnipresent smile hovering at the corner of her mouth. He loves it.

“So,” he says.

“So,” she replies. She doesn’t look ill at ease in the slightest, slouching calmly and observing him.

“What did you want to talk about?”

“Well, first of all, I obviously wanted to say thank you.”

“Oh! You’re welcome. Of course.” 

She frowns at him. “No, not of course. Normal people don’t do that shit, Mr. Barnes.”

“Oh god, call me Bucky. Mr. Barnes was father.”

At that, she leans in, elbows to table, eyes wide. “That’s another thing... Your parents…” She pauses to breathe, so eager that she’s twitchy. “George and Winifred?”

It’s unexpected, viscerally impactful, and Buck grasps and his chest. “Yeah. Why? How…?” he breathes.

She softly admits, “I thought so. I needed to tell you: they saved my life, too.”

“What’d you mean?”

Becca looks down at her hands. “There was this program. Before they died…” 

“You were one of those kids?” The shock rings clear in his voice and she nods. 

“Yeah. I was six when my parents abandoned me.”

“Christ,” he murmurs, reaching out to cover her little hand with his own. “Why?”

She sighs, tugging her hand free and turning it over, and they watch together as the center of her palm glows white, then orange, then bursts into a small flame. “Maybe they got tired of buying fire extinguishers,” she murmurs sadly.

“Becca -” 

She wraps her fingers into a fist around the flickering heat and it disappears. “It’s ok. My foster parents...they’re...better. They have talents, too. And when I didn’t have to suppress it so much, it got easier to control...anyway.” She shakes her head, clearing it. “We’ve been looking for you.”

The coffee maker beeps and Bucky goes to fill their mugs and give his brain a break. “We?”

“Yeah. The other kids they saved. I mean, not all of us, obviously, there are hundreds...But there’s a group of us who stay in touch…” She accepts the mug carefully and takes a long pull. “We didn’t know about you until later. George and Fred talked about you, of course, but they never gave anyone your name, and after that whole...thing went down…” She gestures ambiguously and Buck sees her lip tremble. “No one could find you.”

“Group home,” he explains tightly, then, “Find me? For what?”

“Yeah,” Becca murmurs. “So you wouldn’t be alone.” She’s a kid, but her precocious vulnerability undoes him completely. A sob escapes his mouth and he catches it in his palm, but she doesn’t miss it. On silent tiptoes, she joins him, embraces him, leans up and when she can’t reach his cheek to kiss it, lays one on his chest, holding tight until he can breathe again. “You’ll be ok, Buck.”

He nods. “I know.”

“Can we be friends?” she asks shyly.

“I certainly hope so.”

When he pulls away smiling, she’s eyeing him sincerely, almost nervous for the first time. “Great. There’s one more thing.”

\--

“What’re you up to?” Steve murmurs, sliding behind and wrapping his arms around Buck’s waist. He’s hunched at the island in the kitchen drinking an inappropriately large glass of sweet tea and typing furiously.

“Trying to figure out the fucking pattern.”

“Of what?” 

“Empath,” he mutters shortly.

“What?” Steve sounds concerned.

“Becca told me she felt him the day of the fire. Heat in her neck, panic. She lost time, slid back into memories of...some fucked up shit, and when she woke up the apartment was on fire. He used her to set that blaze. And that night, at the fundraiser...I felt him, Steve. If I can figure out _why_ he is where he is...maybe we can stop him.”

The lips resting against the nape of his neck bite down gently, and then there’s the warm air of a sigh. “I think...maybe you should talk to Nick.”

Buck spins around in his arms. “You hate Nick.”

One well-muscled shoulder raises then drops. “I … hate his department.”

“But you’ve -”

Irritation creeps in. “Leave it, Buck. Just…he’s a good leader, and a great problem solver. If this can keep people safe, then let’s do it.”

“Let’s?” Buck teases, but he’s seriously asking. “As in ‘Let _us_?”

Something disturbingly close to embarrassment dances across Steve’s face. “If...if you’ll have me.”

“Alright.” Torn between punching him and kissing him, Buck settles on, “I’ll email Fury afterwards.”

“After…?”

“You fuck me.”

Steve grins wickedly. “Right here? Nat might not approve of that.”

Buck shrugs and looks innocently towards the back door leading to the garage. “Or the hood of the Challenger. Your call.”

Black swallows up the blue of Steve’s eyes and he shoves Buck towards the door, but he twists a finger through the back belt loop of Buck’s jeans and doesn’t once let go.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Steve's playing in the studio: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SrcOcKYQX3c

“Oh my god, best pizza in the city.”

“I know! What about that place down the street, that little Vietnamese place?”

“With the sandwiches?”

She nods knowledgeably. “Bahn mi, yeah.”

“Love that shit.”

“Could we go? Next week some time?”

“Definitely.”

“Can Steve come?”

Bucky blinks at her. “You want him to?”

Becca nods. “He matters to you.”

“And?”

“And you matter to me. So he matters to me.”

Warmth floods Buck’s chest. A week hanging out with this kid and she’s already under his skin.

“I’ll ask him,” he responds quietly.

“Cool. They’re good with people like, us, too. I have a friend who works there, and they actually appreciate her telekinesis,” she mentions, opening a palm and letting a plume of flame twist up from it. 

“That’s good. Seems like some places are getting better about that.”

“I wonder what it'll be like in twenty years. Will we be safe? In between? Will it have gotten worse?”

Bucky sighs and watches the clouds scuttle across the sky. “I hope better.”

“Me too,” Becca replies. “People are good, I think. They want community. They're just scared.”

“How'd you get so damn smart?”

Her laugh skips across the grass where they lay in the back yard. Echoes off the fence. “I’m secretly very old.”

“Obviously.” 

She’s been over at the house almost every day, sometimes only for an hour or so, but always checking in. Buck wonders whether Becca is hoping he’ll to take care of her, or whether she’s watching out for him. Maybe it’s both. 

Regardless of the reason, Bucky’s grateful for it. He wasn’t kidding, she is remarkably intelligent, resilient, and besides, she feels like a connection to his past, his parents. Like family.

The sun travels, pushing their shadows several silent inches across the lawn.

“I’m sorry about your arm,” Becca whispers and Buck’s so taken aback he physically withdraws in order to stare at her.

“Becca. That wasn’t your fault.”

“Kinda was. I started the fire, and if it weren’t for me, you never would’ve been in that apartment, never would’ve been anywhere near that bookshelf -“

“Listen,” he says, perhaps too vehemently, because she startles. “This was not your fault. That man is an evil sonofabitch, and we’re gonna get him, but do _not_ go thinking this is your fault. Don’t give him that.

He watches her process, sorting through the information, before she nods slowly. “If you say so.” 

“I do. And besides. I’d lose both arms for this life. I don’t regret it, Beck.”

“This life?”

He shrugs. “You. Nat. Steve. Sobriety.”

“If you say so, you crazy motherfucker.” She rolls her eyes but he hears the fondness in her voice. Very Nat-like. A mini-Nat, if you will. “Shit,” she mutters, checking the time. “I gotta go. Bahn mi? Friday?” 

“Yep. I’ll check with Steve.”

“Cool.” She bounces to her feet and he follows her through the house to the front door. She’s got a leaf stuck to the back of her shirt from where they were lying in the yard, and her dark hair keeps getting in her eyes but she still attacks him with a hug. “See you, bro.”

“Bye, weirdo.” He kisses the top of her head then watches her bound down the steps and across the street to the bus stop.

It kills him that she thinks the fire is her fault. She’s been through enough in her life, spent just as much time as he has trying to find herself, be a person she’s proud of, but despite her old soul she is still youth-fragile. One awful event is all it would take to turn her self-awareness into self-consciousness, her vibrance into aggression. He knows. And he’s not about to let that happen to her. 

“She’s a good kid,” Steve says from behind him. 

“She is. Wants you to come with us to dinner.”

“When? Wait. Why?”

Turning around, Buck smiles. “Because you’re important to me.”

Eyebrows quirk up, amused and fond. “I am?” he teases. 

“Fuck you, you know you are,” Buck grouses, slapping him in the chest then winding arms around his waist. He tilts his head for a kiss, but Bucky notices suddenly that there are dark circles beneath his boyfriend’s eyes, and that his trademark rosy cheeks are just a little less so. 

“How ya doin’?”

Steve shrugs amiably and kisses him, and it’s warm but masking. 

“What’s going on?” Buck whispers.

A shadow falls over Steve’s face and his body stiffens. “Nothing, why?”

“Steve.”

“Buck.” 

“Really?”

“What?” he murmurs, the fake surprise almost covered by irritation or…pain? 

“You wanna talk about it?”

“What ‘it’?” he exclaims, stepping away and Buck retaliates, hands on hips.

“Oh no you don’t.”

Not this. Not again. They've spent too long miscommunicating, too many moments lost to confusion. Secrets are fine. Lies are not. 

“Don’t what?” Steve gripes, one hand in his pocket as attempts to retreat to the kitchen but he’s grabbed by the wrist and dragged towards the stairs.

“Let’s go.”

Steve complies in spite of a series of grumblings, but when Bucky throws open the bedroom door and orders him in, he stops stubbornly outside, arms folded. “We’re not sceneing. You didn’t ask to play.”

Buck yanks him through the doorway with a snarl. “I’m not playing.”

Steve spits a little wordless sound of surprise and Buck slams the door almost too hard then spins Steve around, pinning him to it.

“What are you -?”

 “Shut up,” Bucky says. “You don’t wanna tell me? You don’t have to. But you’re mine to take care of now, just as much as I’m yours, and I intend to do that, even if your head is too far up your own ass to realize you’ve never been too good at lying to me.”

Steve is literally so surprised that he goes quiet, eyes wide and mouth open a tiny bit.

“Better.” Buck softens his voice a little to say, “We’re not sceneing, but if you need to safeword, you fuckin’ better. Got it?”

“Got it,” he whispers.

“Good. Color?”

“Green.”

“Good.”

It’s so different, this feeling of being completely present, completely open and honest for once, but it feels good, right, the healing of a wound he never realized he had. He lets it show, doesn’t retreat back into himself, as he slips fingers underneath the hem of Steve’s shirt and pushes it up, running warm palms up against even warmer skin. Benediction. 

Steve’s hair is mussed when the shirt falls away, making him look far younger than his…what, ninety something years? Buck shoves him to the chair in the corner, hard enough that Steve bounces, then kneels at his feet. “Buck?”

Steve's voice is different this time. Confused and awed.

“Shh.”

He unlaces Steve’s boots and tugs them off. Socks next, then bends forward and presses his lips to the Steve’s shin. The gasp echoes in the quiet of the room. Trails his hands up strong thighs to tug business slacks back down. A kiss to the knob of Steve’s left knee, the line of his right quad. A bite at the top of his thigh. A shaky breath ruffles Buck’s hair as Steve clenches his fists, perhaps expecting Bucky’s mouth on his cock, but that’s not what he gets. 

Buck reaches up to take those curled fingers in his own and opens them up, smoothing his thumbs down the palms of Steve’s hands, then leaving little nipping kisses along his wrists and gentler ones to the knuckles. Runs his mouth up the silk of Steve’s forearms. Sits up between tan legs to lick a wet line across Steve’s collarbone and down his chest. Ghosts breath up his neck, along his jaw, behind his ear. 

The trembling of Steve’s hands as they come to rest on Buck’s ribs is the first clue, but when warm and wet taps down once, then twice, on Bucky’s shoulder and runs down his spine he sits back on his heels to check in. 

Steve’s forehead is smooth and there is no crease between his brows. He’s not biting his lip or grinding his teeth. Eyes wide, corner of his mouth turned up.

There are tears, silent and slick, pouring down his face and dripping off his chin.

“Baby,” Buck breathes. “Color.”

A word of air. “Green,” is the reply.

Buck opens himself up kneeling on the carpet with Steve’s hand on his cheek, and Steve’s thumb pressing into his mouth then drawing out to trace wetness across his lips. At three fingers Bucky whimpers a little and Steve visibly loses control, picks Buck up and pulls him into his lap. Kisses him reverently, deeply, tasting like tears and chocolate milk. 

When Buck finally sinks down on Steve's cock they groan, physically and emotionally strung out in a way that’s completely novel to them both. Bucky rides him, slow and refusing to be hurried, hands on Steve’s pecs to steady himself, watching the face of the man he loves.

And Steve - Steve stares back. Open. Naked in every sense of the word. Buck sees a hundred thoughts, fears, mournings, joys, flit across his face, and if Steve never speaks a word about any of them he will still have given more to Bucky in that moment than every other lover combined. And they both know it. 

Bucky comes first with a sigh, and Steve drives up into him, stretching out the pleasure until it’s almost pain then stills with a sob, face buried in Bucky’s neck, wrapped in strong arms.

When the world settles back in around them, Steve stands, carrying Buck to the bed. He cleans them off with a night shirt dipped in the water glass by the bed so he doesn’t have to leave. Curls into Bucky. Allows, allows, _allows_ himself to be held.

—

“Are you hacking the CIA database?”

“Hacking,” Buck mumbles through a mouthful of peanut butter and Dorito sandwich. “Would suggest that I was not given a cypher to decrypt - ” He glances up at Natasha’s dubious expression. “Yeah. Yes. That’s actually exactly what I’m doing.”

“Could you hold the fuck still?” Sam gripes, examining the seam of skin and metal at Bucky’s left wrist. 

“Could you work the fuck faster?”

“Could you not be a dick?”

“You could suck my dick? That’s so nice of you.”

“I’ll tell what you can - ”

_”Boys,” _Natasha gripes. Buck and Sam grin at each other.__

“I’m pretty sure I’ve got dibs on sucking Bucky’s cock, for the record,” Steve announces as he enters the library with pizza box in hand.

“I’m grossed out and turned on at the same time,” Sam mutters to Bucky’s arm.

“Welcome to my life,” Nat says from where she’s reading on the arm of the couch, wings stretched so wide they brush against books on both sides. 

“The fuck are you eating?” Steve asks as he plops down on Bucky’s other side and kisses his cheek. “I told you I was getting pizza.”  

“Hunger emergency. Drastic measures required.” Steve eyes the bag of Doritos wedged into the corner of the couch suspiciously. 

Sam finishes with the physical and turns his attention to Bucky's X-rays from the day before, eating pizza off a napkin on his knee. Nat slides off the couch to use the box as a plate, and Steve ends up feeding himself and Bucky Dorito-topped pizza as Buck works, muttering the word “ridiculous” every few bites.

“Ok, sorry, _why_ are you hacking the CIA?”

“The guy who killed my parents escaped a few months ago. They can’t find him. I’m going to.”

“And then what?” Sam scoffs. He’s trying to keep it light, but he’s clearly concerned.

Buck shrugs. “Kill him? I dunno.”

“Maybe that’s something you should spend some time considering,” Sam offers up quietly, and Bucky’s about to maybe kill him instead when he adds, “Is there anything we can do to help?”

It’s so startling that Bucky glances up from typing furiously. “I - you don’t…” He’s struggling for words but Sam’s just watches him with a small smile. Genuine. Like he actually wants to assist. “I’ll let you know?” 

“Cool.” He turns to Steve. “Dude, you catch any of the Olympics?”

And just like that, it’s back to normal, where normal is an ageless super soldier, a winged badass, an engineer moonlighting as a therapist, and Bucky, eating pizza on a couch, making dick jokes. Or maybe it’s not normal. Maybe they’re cosmically, improbably lucky.

—

Steve comes to dinner with Becca and Buck, and they hit it off so well that Bucky spends a solid quarter of the night watching a disturbingly competitive game of air hockey between the two. He does physical therapy, and his arm is getting stronger. Some days it bothers him. Some days, he almost likes it. He and Steve fuck on every surface in the house, and Natasha talks Sam into having retaliatory sex on Bucky’s bed. It’s a close call between resolving the issue with a four-way and just being more considerate, but in the end they settle on putting post-it notes on the doors of rooms that are “in use”, and a “no fucking on places where someone else eats or sleeps” rule is implemented. 

Bucky continues his with his day job, but he also keeps sifting for information on Alptraum. He searches databases for witness interviews where the victims (or unwilling perpetrators) felt heat, relived memories, lost time. The guy is certainly in the area, but there’s not much of a pattern. A few of the incidents took place frighteningly close to Steve’s place but Fury assures him that the house is being watched by very capable guards. He still goes running, though Steve comes with him now.

Whatever is bothering Steve doesn’t go away, and he doesn’t share. Buck checks in occasionally, making sure Steve keeps up with his business obligations and that he eats, and for a few days that’s enough, but it’s getting worse. On the second night Bucky wakes to an empty bed, he goes searching. 

He checks the warehouse and garden. Kitchen. Garage to make sure all the vehicles are still there. Office. Library. Finally, the studio.

Belatedly as he climbs the stairs to the attic, Buck acknowledges that he looked in the studio last because he knew Steve would be here, and if he’s here in the middle of the night, something’s wrong. 

Something is wrong. 

Behind the door, piano blasts loudly through the speakers, and it’s the most fucking mournful thing Buck’s every heard in his life, so poignant he has to blink a few times to make sure he doesn’t miss a step. For a breath the music seems as if it might lighten, but no - nope right back to ripping his heart out. 

Through the the crack in the door he sees Steve. Giant canvas, as usual. Cans and cups and buckets of paint spread out at his feet, as usual. Most days when he paints, he wears one of his pairs of work pants, wipes his hands when he needs to and rinses them frequently so as not to make a mess, and even though the sprawl of supplies might look unorganized to the casual observer Bucky knows there’s a method to the madness. Usually.

But not tonight. Tonight Steve’s in boxers. Tonight there are brushes and cans scattered everywhere, opened and then shoved away, others nearly underfoot, and he can see that one has been tipped over, green spreading like blood slowly over the floorboards.

Steve’s covered in paint, up to almost his shoulders, and the back of his neck, and Buck guesses his front is a mess. The normal ease of movement has been replaces by frenetic gestures, jerky and graceless, which is not to say that the artwork isn’t beautiful, but it is very different from his usual style.

It’s exquisite. A woman’s face. Soft brown hair, kind smile warm eyes. Bucky loves her too, from a hundred years away. Steve’s carves a dimple into her cheek with a darker shade of tan, then the other side, then tries to add shine in soft white where the light hits her eyes but his hand slips, drags the brown of her iris down into the lash line a little, barely noticeable, but Steve’s a perfectionist, Steve doesn’t do anything by halves, Steve - Steve sinks to the floor. 

Bucky aches to wrap his arm around those shaking shoulders, to kiss away the tears, but this moment isn’t his. He’s not a part of this loss. Some pain needs space, and even though it breaks his heart, he gives it.

He doesn’t go to sleep though. Not by a long shot. 

—

He’d planted the flowers months ago. They bloomed brilliantly. He’s grateful as he clips them from the ground and gathers them in a bundle.

She’d been a codebreaker in WWII then British intelligence. She’d been a part of the experiment that saved Steve’s life. They fought in a few wars together. She helped found the division now Fury works for, S.H.I.E.L.D. They’d been married fairly young, early twenties, and Bucky’d never wanted to meet someone so badly before. Even on paper she's magnetic. 

She got old. Sick. Steve did not. 

Between the CIA, FBI, and Nick’s login he has access to file after file, articles, news reels on them both. He sorts them chronologically and reads what he can, absorbs what he can with tired eyes, even watches a few of the videos. Maybe he should be jealous, maybe he is and can’t distinguish the emotion from the rest of the pain in his chest, but he thinks he likes seeing them together. Steve looks younger somehow, even though his face is the same. Lighter. And she is…was…amazing. She could shoot a gun, speak a dozen languages, kick ass, and apparently had quite the green thumb. Whip smart and sassy to boot.

As the sun creeps up he clicks on the last video link they have. It’s from a hospital room, and the camera angle makes him uncomfortable, like someone was keeping tabs one them without their consent. 

They talk with familiarity, about life and past and change. He’s having difficulty with something, and the wisdom she offers clearly gives him comfort in the past, but it bolsters Buck, now, too. “You have to start over,” she says, then practically coughs up a lung. Steve fetches her water, and as he sits forward to offer it, her face shifts. Changes. 

“Steve?” she says. “You’re alive. You came back.” Forgotten. All gone.

“Yeah, Peg," he whispers.

“It’s been so long.” She’s weeping. 

He watches Steve’s heart break.

Rewinds. Again. Those beautiful eyes cloud and something fractures behind them. It physically hurts. There’s the weight he recognizes. 

He reads the last of the files through blurry vision. 

Dementia. Steve had said goodbye, promised the mission would be over, that’d he'd be home within the month. She died a week later. S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t tell him until he’d touched down stateside afterward, two weeks after her body’d been cremated. Steve’s performance on the job was too important, success too imperative to have him distracted by the loss. It would’ve compromised the mission, they said. 

It’s early as fuck and Buck has no where to be later, but he showers anyway, and combs his hair. Puts on a suit, less sexy than Dessa’s tailored suit, more formal, and a tie.

He collects roses from the bushes near the fence. The night he’d strung the lights, he’d noticed the little stone in the center, but hadn’t paid it much mind. He understands now.

Walking through the archway, he sees with new eyes. This was hers. Flowers and vegetables, organized chaos. Artful, strangely enough. Life. 

He clears off the little stone. The date of death is today. Arranges the roses.

There’s no way of knowing how long he kneels there. Long enough to soak the shin of one pant leg. He doesn’t notice. When he can finally breathe again, he stands, and for some fucking ridiculous reason, speaks.

“Hey, Peggy. I’m … uh, I’m Bucky. Well, James, but...Jesus christ, how can I suck this bad at talking to a dead person?” He chuckles dryly to himself. “You should see me with the living.”

The sun throws light on the little headstone. A greeting, perhaps.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to find you. And I’m sorry about your garden. I hope the lights are ok. Steve is really fucking clumsy for such an athletic guy…I’m sure you know that... I wanted to make sure at least he could see the shit he was tripping over.”

He sighs. Brushes a leaf away with his shoe.

“I’m in love with your husband. Ex husband? Anyway, I love him. More than I thought was possible. He’s … fuck, he’s the best. So damn smart and kind and weird and - well. You know. Of course you do.” 

God it hurts, but it also feels…healing somehow.

“I think he loves me back, although I’m not sure he knows what he’s getting himself into. To be fair, I don’t really either. I want to make him happy though. Want to take care of him, let him take care of me. I want to go on adventures with him, and I doubt they’ll ever be as cool as the shit you guys did - I mean, hell, Peggy, you guys saved the world once or twice - but I want ‘em just the same.

“I hope…I want you to know, I’m not trying to take your place. Couldn’t if I wanted to. He’s always gonna miss you, and that’s ok. But if you can hear this…I’d like your blessing.”

He’s not going to get one, of course, but it’s a sincere wish. 

“Thank you, for taking such good care of him. I’ll try to keep his stupid ass in line. I’m sorry you didn’t get to say goodbye properly, though if you and I are anything alike, you probably would’ve liked to go sooner, and were just hanging on to keep him company, and I love you for that.” He’s completely unsurprised to find himself crying. “You’re a remarkable woman, Peggy Carter. I’m truly sad we never got to meet, though it’d be way harder for me to steal your husband if we could, so maybe that’s a good thing.”

There’s a muffled laugh. Steve’s behind him, in slacks and a sweater though there’s paint in his hair and down his neck, with a hand clapped over his mouth. 

“Hi,” Bucky says faintly. 

“Hi,” Steve replies shyly, then notices the roses. “You…”

“Yeah.”

“How did you…”

“Did some research.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” he finally offers up. “About the end. That wasn’t ok, it was awful and I … I get it. How you feel about Fury, and S.H.I.E.L.D. I get it now.”

Steve grabs him by the waist and yanks him in. “You get that I was afraid to lose someone else I love, to them?”

Buck nods.

“Then you better be fucking careful, Bucky Barnes. I want you around for a while.”

“Count on it.” Steve tilts his head up, kisses him possessively, then turns to the grave. 

Kneels on it. “Hey darlin’,” he whispers. “It’s been a while.” Steve smiles over his shoulder to where Buck is standing. “I’m doing real good these days, obviously. You’ve seen him. Some day,” his voice catches. “Some day maybe the three of us could have dinner. I think you two’d get along.” He rises. “I expect you’re causing a ruckus up there, so I'll let you get back to it. Love you, Peg.”

He steps back to lean against Bucky’s shoulder and gaze at the grave. “You want some time alone?” Buck asks. Steve doesn’t say anything, but he does link their fingers together and holds Bucky there until a text tone goes off, then another and another, and Bucky almost apologizes until they realize its both of them and they dig their phones from their pockets. It’s a group message, from Sam.

_Guys_

_Guys!_

_Great news!_

_How do you feel about brain surgery?_

“Brain surgery?” Buck and Steve intone simultaneously and it makes Bucky laugh. “What the fuck?”

 “We’ll deal with it later. After.”

“After?”

Steve kisses his cheekbone and leads him back through the garden. “I wanna show you this painting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! I'm guessing two more chapters?
> 
> Sorry the updates are farther apart. Work and class are eating my life. Good thing I have these fuckers to distract me!!
> 
> Anyway. Much love. 
> 
> Come visit me at seasless.tumblr.com !


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more to go, my sweets.

“No.”

“Steve.”

“No.”

“You don’t get to decide this shit for me.”

Steve stares stubbornly at the ground, arms folded, without response. 

“You want me defenseless when I go up against this guy?”

“I don’t want you to go at all!”

Buck groans and flops down on the couch to give himself time to think. 

The meeting today had been informative, and also a bit of a disaster. Intel’s in on Alptraum, has been for a few weeks, but they can’t get a read on location. Nick wants to use Bucky as bait. That, obviously, had not gone over well. 

“I can’t believe you broke his door,” Buck mutters, arm thrown over his eyes.

“I can’t believe he even suggested this!”

“It’s not like he’s throwing me to the wolves!” Bucky hollers, sitting up. “The shit they wanna give me will protect my brain, and I’m more than capable of protecting my body.”

“Your arm-”

“Is better. It’s as functional as it’ll ever be, Steve.” His voice softens, begging to be understood. “I have to do this.” 

“Buck,” he whispers, collapsing from harsh to pleading in the span of a breath. “Come on. We literally just... just found each other. If something happens to you -”

Bucky perches on the back of the couch, holding out his arms, and Steve steps between his knees to bury his face in Buck’s neck, breathing deeply in an attempt at regaining control. It’s not hiding the way he’s trembling a little.

Kissing his temple, Bucky says, “He can’t hurt me. I’m stronger.”

“What about the serum?” Steve murmurs into his skin. “We don’t know all the side effects.”

“It’s a risk I gotta take, Stevie.”

Bucky stops coming up with arguments in favor of letting his heart skip at the fierce devotion in his boyfriend’s eyes as Steve says, “I’m going with you, and don’t you dare argue.”

Tisking, Buck drawls coyly, “Would I do that?”

“Have, would, and will again. It’s one of the things I love about you.”

“Say it again,” he murmurs, eyes sparkling and Steve reacts to the shift immediately, catching his chin and holding him still.

“I love you.”

“Again.”

“Buck,” he breathes. “I love you.”

They’re terrified. They’re tired. Everything is changing. And yet somehow, it’s enough.

They’re enough. 

“Good.” The grin spreads over his face as he goes for the hem of Steve’s shirt but Steve catches his wrist. 

“Pushy aren’t we?”

Buck shrugs. “I know what I want,” and he goes in with the other hand, which Steve also catches, grinning. It’s sends a shot of excitement down Buck’s spine, that feeling of being held. “Hey! Fucker,” he grunts, leaning in and biting Steve in the ticklish spot over his ribs, right below his pec, and the guy fucking giggles.

Giggles. Like a kid. Like he’s not solidly over six feet tall. Like they’re not discussing life and death. And Bucky, god forgive him, can’t let that go. 

He backs Steve into the bookshelf with wrists still caught, and leans in to bite him again, this time in the shoulder. It doesn’t hurt, Steve actually rolls his eyes, but it creates a diversion in which Bucky gets close enough to tickle him. Which he does. Vigorously.

Steve snorts, undignified and charming, and Bucky laughs too, overcome with fondness. He’s aware he’s pushing his luck, that at some point the torture will come back on him, but until then he goes at it, pinning his boyfriend to the wall with his hips, using all of his fantastical strength in the endeavor. 

With breathtaking speed Steve let’s go Buck’s wrists, only to lunge forward and tackle him to the ground, but Buck’s not worried. He’s not ticklish on his stomach and most people never even think to try -

“Now what!” Steve shouts, triumphant, wriggling his knuckles into the backs of Bucky’s knees and Buck shrieks hysterically and rolls their bodies so Steve is beneath him. 

“You think you’re so fuckin’ sneaky…” He pins Steve’s hands to the carpet tightly and the blond grins up at him, sweet and amused. “Had enough?”

“Yeah yeah, sure. Truce,” Steve agrees, color high on his cheeks, but the second Buck is standing, his feet are yanked out from under him and he hits the carpet with a whoof. Eyes sparkling, Steve crawls on top of him and returns the favor, pinning Buck’s palms above his head, and leans in to kiss his neck, voice soft but still full of mischief. “I was a military strategist. I’m always gonna get you.”

“Promise?” Buck whispers, suddenly shy, and Steve’s eyes darken as he falls forward to capture Buck’s mouth with his own, but not before whispering, “I do.”

Steve takes him apart slowly - meticulously worshipful. They’ve fucked dozens of times, but this one feels different, weighs heavier in the best way. Binding. “Fuck, Steve,” Buck pants as his boyfriend sucks mark after mark into his skin, hip, thigh, stomach, and because he wasn’t instructed to keep his hands anywhere, he lets them twist into Steve’s hair.

It sinks him under quickly, every hickie a brand that Buck’s been begging for in one way or another his whole life, and it’s magic. The noise in his head fades, the worry smoothes into sensation, and the tension pours out of his muscles and into the carpet below. 

“You’re mine,” Steve growls, and bites again into the meat of Buck’s side, leaving a mark there, too. “Not theirs.” A stinging, and another bruise blooms on his shoulder. “They can’t have you.” His clavicle. Whispered, “I won’t let them have you.” His neck. 

The tone of Steve’s voice is turning to air, desperate even as Bucky arches his back, pressing his body up, unaware of the words tumbling from his lips, begging, until Steve murmurs, “Easy baby. I got you. Easy,” and rolls him onto his stomach, dragging off his boxers as he goes. 

Face resting on the soft carpet, Buck listens to the rustling of clothes, the smooth shushing of wooden drawers, and then feels Steve’s fingers, warm and rough, smoothing up his back, then down, circling his hole. “Ohhh, Steve.”

“Relax for me baby. That’s it. So fuckin’ good.” His slicked up finger slides in easy, and they both groan, control disintegrating as Steve scissors him open. “You’re so beautiful, Buck,” he whispers. “Love you so fuckin’ much.”

The words go straight to his head and he groans. “Love you, Stevie. Come on, fuck me. Make me feel you for days. Please.”

“Listen to you,” he breathes. “Fuckin’ desperate for it. My sweet boy.” And he thrusts in, silky smooth but fast, earning a shout. With a small sound, he curls in over Bucky’s back, tucking his nose behind Buck’s ear and twining their fingers, aligning them in every way possible, and Bucky loses himself in the feeling of Steve. Safety. Home.

And Steve holds up his end, bringing them to the edge so many times that Buck starts to weep softly into the carpet, and at a particularly harsh sob, Steve pulls out and flips him to check in. He looks concerned, but Bucky just reaches up and reels him back down. 

“Please. Need you.” He gasps as Steve presses the pad of his thumb into the bruise on his shoulder. 

“Mine.”

“Yours. Stevie, please. I need -” Bucky finds himself unable to form words anymore - little whimpers escaping instead. Buck pleads with wide eyes, not sure what he’s asking for, what he even needs at this point.

Steve closes one hand over his throat.

Not completely, Bucky can breathe alright, but it takes extra effort and immediately everything settles, falls to rights. He can relax now that every part of him belongs to Steve: his heart, his body, his breath. Fingertips and toes begin tingling, but that sensation quickly fades into the background of Steve driving into him as hard as they can take, rug burning Buck’s back until that pressure begins to build at the base of his spine.

“Steve,” he gasps. He needs it. “Please -”

“Yeah, baby. Now.”

Now. 

His release tears out of him and Steve lets go of his throat to grasp his hips, holding him in place to fuck into him. The rush of oxygen floods Buck’s system and the orgasm seems drawn out, amplified until Steve curls up, mouth covering Bucky’s, jerking as he comes, until they’re both lying panting and spent on the carpet.

Buck comes back into his body standing in the master bathroom in front of the mirror, where Steve is cleaning them off with a warm washrag, poignantly gentle. There are bruises all over Buck’s body, hickies sucked dark into his skin, and a faint line across his throat, mostly just pink, but he touches it reverently anyway. 

“Sorry,” Steve murmurs, and Buck’s shocked to see him look hesitant. “I got a little -”

“I love it.”

“Yeah?” Hope buoys his voice.

“Feels like...like I belong to you.”

\--

“We hear you’re gonna use yourself as bait.”

Buck sighs. “Maybe don’t phrase it like that, Sam.”

“Regardless, we’re obviously coming with you.”

“Nat -”

“Shut the fuck up. No -. Nope. Stop. Shut up.” She’s not fucking around.

Nat has plenty of hand-to-hand combat training, she’s probably more dangerous than Buck, but Sam…

“No offense dude, but how’re you going to...contribute?”

Sam beams. 

“I’m so glad you asked.”

\--

“This is weird,” Steve mutters.

“You had the fucking place built. How is it weird?”

Steve shrugs. “I dunno. I’ve just...never been out here. It’s your guys’ place, you and Nat’s.”

Buck smiles fondly. Only Steve could finance a building and still have the grace to accept that it as someone else’s. “So we’re inviting you.” He opens the warehouse door. “Come on.”

Steve’s not wrong. It is he and Nat’s place, and it looks it. In one corner they’ve cleared a space where Bucky put his mini-fridge and bookshelves. Nat bought a couch off Craigslist, a horrifying 70’s flowery pattern, but it’s comfy as hell and her joke about him sleeping in there only remained a joke because he’d rather sleep with Steve. There’s even a rug, a blue fuzzy thing that they found in a closet in the house. 

“Wow.” It’s sarcastic, but he also sounds genuinely impressed. “You did a number on this place.” He scans the shelves. “Medical journals?”

“Not just,” Buck protests. “Scientific American, some journals, and look, Vonnegut. Totally normal.” 

Steve shakes his head and scoffs, but he also pulls Bucky in by the back of his neck to kiss him fiercely.

“James Buchanan Barnes, you get your ass up here this minute!” Nat calls, and Sam’s laugh rings out somewhere near the ceiling. 

“Excuse me,” Buck smirks, and breaks away at a run. He leaps to one of the platforms extending from the wall, then another and another until he’s high enough in the air for it to be truly dangerous if he fell, so obviously he jumps. Arms extended, he grasps onto one of the rafters and swings around before flinging himself off and catching a rope as he falls. 

“Show off!” Steve shouts, sounding breathless. 

“Show me up then!” Buck challenges and Nat joins in. 

“Yeah Rogers, let’s see what you’re made of!”

Steve says nothing, just takes off at a run towards the rock wall. He makes a jump for it, flying through the air and catching himself on the rocks with nothing but his hands. In a minute flat he scales the face without ever planting his feet, letting them swing free as he reaches up and up, muscles working beneath his skin, yet he manages to make it look effortless. Buck grins when he reaches the top, wondering how Steve plans on getting down but his face falls in terror as Steve backflips off the top of the wall, freefalling through the dust motes and shadow, and at the last minute, one hand shoots out and catches a rope, stopping his fall.

“What the fuck!” Bucky shouts. Intellectually he knows Steve’s essentially invincible, but his heart is still pounding. Natasha laughs gleefully though, and slips from her perch on a rafter to flutter around Steve as he ascends. 

“Not bad, old man,” she teases. 

“Why thank you. Your wings are incredible.” 

Nat grins, sweet and vulnerable, at the compliment.

“This the first time you’ve seen her fly?” Sam’s voice floats through the dappled darkness and Buck tries to get a read on his location. He’s up in the rafters for sure. Maybe Nat flew him up?

“Yeah,” Steve replies, swinging easily across rafters like monkey bars until he can pull himself up to sit next to Buck who leans over and bites him in the delicate space where shoulder meets neck. “Ow! What was that for?”

“Scared the shit outta me,” Buck mutters irritably but Steve yelps indignantly. 

“You’re gonna use your body as bait to lure out one of the most dangerous men in the world, and you’re giving me shit about rock climbing?”

“He’s not ‘one of the most dangerous men in the world’,” Bucky protests.

“He is! Fucking mind control, Buck!”

“The serum will take care of that!”

“Yeah, and maybe make a third eyeball grow in the middle of your forehead!”

“It’s not gonna fucking-”

“You don’t know that-”

“They said it was like yours! Did _you_ grow a third eyeball?

“How my body responded to a century old drug is the _least_ of our -”

“Mom, Dad, stop fighting!” 

“Shut up, Sam!” they holler in unison. The air hangs thick and dangerous for a moment before the tension dissolves into laughter. Bucky presses a kiss over the already fading bite mark on Steve’s neck, then gasps as Sam swoops out of the rafter, soaring easily on...wings? 

“What the fuck?”

He swishes back and forth in front of them, a less graceful and precise than Nat certainly, but airborn nonetheless. The paneled metal extends from a pack he’s wearing over his shoulders, sturdy and sleek “Built ‘em,” he explains with a grin.

“For work?”

“Uh…” He drifts to a chain nearby and grips it, letting the wings fold in. “Nah. I wanted to…” He looks torn between embarrassment and pride. “Wanted to fly with Nat. Seemed like an awfully big part of her life for me not to understand.”

“Jeez,” Steve whispers. 

“Damn,” Buck adds. 

Nat flutters in and kisses him.

“So you’re coming with.” Buck won’t pretend he’s not relieved to have some friends on his side, but then - “Wait, does Fury this?”

Sam chuckles. “There is no fucking _way_ we are telling Nick.”

\--

“Well?”

Bucky feels the weight of the decision in his bones, but there’s only ever been one answer, really.

“Yes. Under one condition.”

“What?” Fury mutters dryly.

“I want the recipe for the serum.”

“It’s Tony’s work. It’s up to him.”

“Then ask. I want it.”

“Why?” 

Buck shrugs. “Curiousity?”

Tony grumbles, gripes, and comes down to the lab to personally threaten his life should the formula ever turn up publically, but once Buck eventually manages to calm him down, he agrees. Give’s Buck the print out. And an injection.

And it’s over, just like that. Tony’s serum, based on the one Steve was given all those years ago, should make him immune to Alptraum’s advances, mentally, at least. He’d had to sign a dozen waivers indicating that he understood the risks, understood they didn’t really know the side effects yet, that he released them of liability. Steve was right to be worried. The risk wasn’t nonexistent. Just worth it.

He hadn’t actually mentioned to anyone that he was going to meet with Fury. Not exactly. During every conversation about the actual serum Steve would avoid his gaze, retreat into himself, and honestly, Buck was just tired of it. Steve was uncomfortable with it, fine. But there was work to be done. 

After the injection, Nick sits down with him to outline their strategy. It’s not the final plan, just a rough draft and anticipated issues. He even manages to talk Nick into letting him take the files of the plans with him, with the promise to burn them when he’s done, and he turns the ideas over in his head as he drives him. 

Mulls as he enters and kicks off his shoes. Makes coffee. He’s so far in his head that he doesn’t notice the pacing in the second floor hall, or the steps down the stairs, not until Steve yanks him away from the counter and slams him against the wall. “The fuck were you?”

Steve is furious to cover his terror, Buck knows, so he doesn’t look away as he responds, “Talking to Nick and Tony. Got the injection.”

Steve shoves him back a little before releasing him. “You got the shot?” He sounds weird but not unhappy, so Buck just answers honestly.

“Yeah. And the plans for Alptraum. I want you to look over them with me. I trust you with that shit more than Nick or any of them.”

That makes the corners of Steve’s mouth twitch up, though he runs a hand down his face, looking a million miles away for just long enough for Bucky to start to worry, then snaps out of it, back to the present, saying, “Your bruises are gone.” 

Buck blinks surprisedly down. “Must be the serum. Damn. Would’ve liked to keep those.”

“I could give you some more.” He leans in, bracketing Buck against the wall with his arms to kiss him slow and deep. “But lemme make you breakfast first.”

Within the hour they're surrounded by omelettes and bacon and a stack of toast on dense, crusty bread drowned in butter, and Buck pulls out the files before plopping into a chair with the singular mission of stacking all his bacon and eggs between two pieces of toast as high as they’ll go. Steve remains standing, drains his mug of coffee in one breath, thunks it on the table, and begins flipping through the documents.

“Hey, Becca’s coming over for dinner by the way.”

“Tonight?” Buck gasps over a coffee-seared tongue.

“Yeah, that ok?”

“Of course. If I had plans…”

“Becca and I would’ve had a delightfully peaceful dinner.”

“Oh fuck off. You two are the instigators.”

“Debateable,” Steve murmurs into a folder, smothering a smile.

“Fact.”

Bucky’s waiting for a retort, but Steve frowns and starts laying papers out over the table. He fetches a pencil and some highlighters from the junk drawer and goes to work.

It should be boring, watching him notate and rearrange. It’s anything but. 

A few minutes in, Steve pops the top buttons of his shirt and Buck spends half his breakfast staring at the stretch of skin. Files are organized quickly as Steve skims and sorts, running fingers through blond hair when he gets worked up, biting his lip thoughtfully...It’s like some weird striptease where instead of the intimacy of nudity, Buck gets the privilege of the intimacy of watching Steve work. 

By the time he looks up, Bucky’s done eating and uncomfortably hard. 

“What?” Steve asks. 

“What?” 

“You look...flushed.” 

“‘M fine. You’re...sexy. Like that.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno. Focused. The way you get when you paint. Or when I’m underneath you. I like that look.”

Steve blushes. “I like that you notice that.”

“Duh.” After gazing foolishly at each other for too long, Buck adds. “So? Thoughts?”

“When are you going?”

“Two days.”

Steve nods. “Then we’ll talk about it tomorrow, I want to run through some possibilities before I say anything definite.

“Great,” Buck says. “I was hoping to chill today. In case -”

Steve cuts him off curtly. Nervous. Covering. He does it well though. “In the meantime...someone was very disobedient today.”

The tone of Steve’s voice has Buck’s breath caught in his chest. “Oh?”

“Went to get a very dangerous medical procedure without saying a word.”

“Not _very_ dangerous.”

“Are you talking back, Bucky Barnes?” One eyebrow arches severely. “Can’t have that. I think someone deserves to be punished.” Buck works his jaw, shifting uncomfortably from the way pants feel wildly too tight and Steve steps closer, tilting Buck’s face up with a finger beneath his chin. “Play?”

“Please,” Buck gasps. 

Steve gives him twenty lashes, and then fucks his face. It’s the best kind of punishment.

\--

“Buck!” Becca shouts. “I missed you!” 

“Oh my god, you too, loudmouth,” he mutters into her shoulder where she’s still swinging in his embrace. She does this everytime they see each other again, a million thoughts, a mile a minute. Bucky loves it. 

“Steve said you guys would take me on a motorcycle ride soon.”

“Did he?” Buck narrows his eyes over her shoulder to which Steve responds by mouthing, “What?” and shrugging with faux innocence.

“I got an A on the history test you helped me study for.”

“Great!” he says, setting her down.

“This was outside for you.” She shoves a stack of mail into his hands and the doorbell immediately rings again. 

“I’ll get it!” she shrieks and runs to the door. 

“Damn, you got a lot of energy,” Sam chuckles as she opens the door for him.

“Sorry not sorry.”

Natasha flutters over the railing from the second floor to give Sam a squeeze. “Let’s do this, you weirdos.”

Sam and Steve drag the grill from the shed, and Becca lights the charcoal in the base with the flick of her wrist. They leave it to cook down and start in on food prep. Even Becca is fairly adept with a knife (disturbingly so, actually), so everything gets chopped and mixed and into it’s proper container with surprising alacrity, leaving them with some time before they can put the burgers on, which leads Sam to propose a game in the back yard. 

It’s a terrible idea, they all agree, but they try it anyway. In the end, Steve spikes the volleyball through the wall of the storage shed, Becca accidentally lights the net on fire, the metal cuff in Bucky’s wrist rips the ball open, and Natasha laughs so hard she starts dry-heaving, which is their cue to stop. 

Eventually the burgers and veggies get grilled, food set out, and they all settle in the grass, though Buck has to eat on his side because his ass is still on fire from his lashes, a fact that Steve exacerbates by flicking him in the back pockets every once in awhile, much to his chagrin. 

“You’re a fucker,” he grumbles, flicking a strip of lettuce in Steve’s direction.

“Why thank you.”

“I love this,” Becca declares to the darkening evening. 

“Me, too,” Nat murmurs, voice surprisingly soft and she rolls to face Buck. “Can you imagine if someone would’ve told us this is what our lives would be? Back in the home?”

He brushes a delicate finger over her bird tattoo, and she leans in, pressing a kiss to it’s twin on his forearm. 

“Never woulda believed it,” he says, unable to control the starry-eyed way he smiles at Steve. 

“Me neither,” Becca adds. “When your parents’ foundation suspended it’s work I thought my life was over. It was terrible, bad foster homes, no one cared...but now…”

“It’s good,” Sam says. 

“It is,” Steve agrees.

They lay in the grass, napping and grazing and laughing, until it grows wet with evening dew and everyone heads to bed, except for Becca, who heads to their library couch for the night.

Steve and Buck pass out the second their heads hit the pillow, mentally and physically exhausted, and sleep like the dead until Bucky wakes up having to pee so badly he almost doesn’t make it to the toilet. The handful of mail Becca brought in had been haphazardly tossed on the bathroom counter in their rush to get to bed, and he thumbs through it absently. Bill for Steve, junk, junk, bill, and a letter addressed to him.

Curious, he tears it open. He never gets mail. He lives with the only people who give a fuck that he’s alive.

_2 am., alone, the old apartment. Don’t be a tattletale, and don’t you dare be late or I’ll kill them all, the girl, the redhead, the smartass engineer. And your boy. Or make them kill each other. Wouldn’t that be fun?_

The paper flutters to the ground. 

For a moment, he panics. Wake Steve up? But then a tingle of heat at the base of his skull. No. Can’t risk it. Tears blur his vision. He was supposed to have time. They were supposed to have time. He checks they clock. 1:15.

Out of time.

He takes one of the motorcycles. He leaves the letter, with an addition in his own handwriting.

_I love you. I’m sorry._

\--

It’s profoundly bizarre, being back in his old neighborhood, but even stranger when he realizes his childhood home has been abandoned, the X marking it for demolition standing out like a blemish in the moonlight. He parks the bike, jimmies the lock.

It’s different, obviously, but the decor from the previous family had been mostly left behind, carpet, a wooden kitchen table. He remembers the front hall, remembers the peeling wood of the door frame to the bathroom. Cabinets are the same. 

At the end of the hall is the living room.

The light is already on.

He enters cautiously, but Alptraum is sitting on the couch in plain sight, legs crossed daintily and Bucky wants to kill him, shred him, rip him end from end. Red and tingling heat crawl across his vision, and then rough hands grab his wrists, quick and strong. They wouldn’t have been strong enough on their own, but two against one, and Bucky caught off guard... in a breath he’s handcuffed and the men step back again, fading into the shadows against the wall. 

“Don’t bother struggling,” he says coolly. “I made sure they were...you-proof. You like my muscle men?”

“Fuck you,” Bucky spits. “What do you want with me anyway?”

Alptraum stands, tisking. “You, dear boy, are an unfinished job, a glaring mistake. As long as you live, your father wins. And I can’t have that.”

“All this, for what? He got you fired? Lost you some money? How is this worth ten years of your life?”

Alptraum grabs him by the collar Buck lunges forward, snarling, but the men grab him again, holding him still. “You don’t get it, do you? The work I was doing was cleansing the world. I am a humanitarian, James, and all those people, poor and sick and dark, are leeches, parasites on this world. The policies we were implementing were getting rid of them! Defund nursing homes, fewer people to take care of. Foster situations,” he sneers. “Assisted living…All that money freed, with nowhere to go but up. And your father robbed me of that. On track to become one of the most powerful men in the world and now what am I?”

Horrifying. Driven purely by hate. Buck thinks this is the true definition of a villain, whether they have powers or not.

“Escaped convict,” Buck gasps. “Murderer. Evil. Really fuckin’ ugly. And a coward, making me come alone.”

“I must admit, I thought about asking you to bring your friends. I hate Rogers, so fucking self-righteous, and you do love each other so much. I almost changed my mind and tried to catch you together after seeing you at the benefit, all gooey-eyed for each other.”

“You were there.”

“Of course! I’ve enjoyed watching you James! And of course, playing with you. The fire was a nice touch, no?”

“Why now? If you’ve been around for months.” He wriggles in his cuffs trying desperately to break them.

Alptraum’s smile is disgusting, insidious and slimy, and it spreads. He begins to chuckle, then laugh outright. “Oh my boy. I was just waiting.”

“For what?” They bite into his skin, but don't bend at all.

“I could’ve killed you months ago. You were so vulnerable, at the bottom of your well, so to speak, but where was the fun in that? You _wanted_ to die!”

“What?” Buck whispers, but the maniac’s on a roll.

“And then all that recovering, withdrawals and pining for that stupid boy, such wonderful suffering! But now, now James, now, you have everything you’ve ever wanted. And how fun to watch you lose it all.”

The heat intensifies in his neck and Alptraum frowns. “Damn. I was hoping Stark’s serum would be a dud. You don’t feel a thing do you? We’ll just have to do this the old fashioned way then, won’t we?” He holds out a hand and a switchblade appears from one of the shadowy men. 

He struggles, but it only sort of works, thrashing the men around as they hold him down. It’s not enough, and Alptraum runs the blade easily down the length of his thigh. 

Bucky screams.

\--

It probably doesn’t last very long in reality, but feels like a lifetime. 

He struggles away, moving as far as the hall, almost to the door before they tackle him, hold him down.

The incisions _burn_ , like ice or fire, and Buck tries to keep quiet, but it only works half the time, and it's getting hard to breathe as panic creeps in.

He just wants to see Steve again. One more kiss, one more conversation, one more cup of coffee in the early morning light.

Alptraum pontificates, and Buck stops listening as a form of rebellion, retreating into his mind. He remembers sitting in this very room, decades ago, curled on the carpet talking to his father. "You can't imagine the strength within you until it's tested, James. Don't be afraid to test it."

Don't be afraid. 

\--

The door flies open. Steve, looking larger than life framed by moonlight from Bucky’s view on the floor. 

Natasha shouts from somewhere over Steve’s shoulder. He throws one of the henchmen backwards out the door without even looking, and Buck watches two winged forms rising in the air with a man caught between them

“Whoops,” Alptraum sneers, and buries the switchblade in Buck’s gut, smiling as the other man in black jumps in the way.

Steve roars “NO!” and then with flawless military precision breaks the guard’s neck before lunging, knocking Alptraum down the hall. Buck can hear grunting, and then Steve’s voice muttering something unintelligible. He manages to get his cuffed hands in front of himself, only to feel his shirt sticky-heavy with blood and he groans. It doesn’t hurt as badly as the thought it might, but it’s still not pleasant. 

He stumbles to his feet as Steve destroys the man who killed his parents, wailing on him with machine-like accuracy until he’s a bloody, groaning pulp. There’s the thud of a body hitting the ground outside and just as the thought flickers across Buck’s mind that it would suck massively to die right now, and the whole world goes quiet.

“Buck? Buck!”

“I’m ok, I’m ok. Is he alive?”

“Barely.”

“I want to do it.”

“Buck-”

“Please, Steve.”

Buck uses the wall to creep forward and Steve’s arms are around him in an instant, stabilizing him. Concern dances across Buck’s chest at Steve’s expressionlessness despite the flecks of blood on his face and the crimson caked to his fists. 

None of this went the way it was supposed to, but they’re here, now, and for once, he knows what to do. It's been long enough, and strangely, this most important of events, the one his whole life has been building to, seems remarkably anticlimactic. No less satisfying though.

“Hey, buddy?” Buck spits, lifting his foot and using Steve as an anchor. “I win,” and with a swift blow, he lands the kick, breaking the guy’s neck. 

“James!” Concerned voices echo from the end of the hall but he needs a minute, leans back against Steve and the wall. Really, getting stabbed doesn’t hurt all that much. 

“Where’s the wound?” Steve asks, voice curt and quiet. He’s all business, wartime efficiency, and Bucky peels his shirt up to reveal...nothing. A line of puckered skin and nothing else. 

“The serum,” Buck breathes, glancing up. “Like yours. I guess it works, huh?” 

The ice freezes from Steve’s face and the all control leaves him with a breath. He falls to his knees so abruptly that Bucky jerks to catch him, concerned Steve’s been injured before he remembers that’s not possible. 

Arms thread around his waist and Steve presses his face into Bucky’s stomach, just breathing.

“Hey baby,” Buck says fondly, and when Steve lifts his head, there are tears mixed with the drops of blood. “Shit. Hey, what’s wrong? We got him.”

Steve nods, swallowing a few times, but when he speaks, his voice still cracks. “Thought I’d lost you,” he chokes as Natasha envelops them both with arms and wings, and Sam steps beside him. "Couldn't...if I...fuck," he shudders and it's crazy, this powerful man who bows to no one brought to his knees by the mere thought of having lost Buck.

Buck pulls him up, brushes Steve's nose with his own, then presses a bloody hand to his chest, over his pulse. “Can’t get rid of me that easy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visit me at seasless.tumblr.com


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little wrap up fluff.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for stickin' with me. I appreciate you.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh no.”

“Fuck you.”

“If you’d like.”

“Steve!”

“Buck!

“I hate you.”

“You don’t.” He laughs that beautiful, golden laugh and yanks Buck into his lap. “I’m sorry. What were you thinking about?”

“My parents’ foundation.”

“Oh,” Steve whispers, suddenly serious.

“I was thinking that maybe I could start it up again. I hacked into the account where their assets were stored, and there’s money left. Not a shit-ton, but enough to get started. I wanted to do something to help people. Make them proud. What’dya think?”

“I think,” Steve replies slowly and dangerously bright-eyed. “I’d like to help.”

\--

“Buckster! Buckinator. Buckatron.”

“What is wrong with you?” He’s just finished changing the oil in the Challenger, but he can hear Becca giggling from her perch on top of it. 

“I have something for you.”

He wriggles out, shirt smudged to shit. “What?”

She extends her hand and he reaches out, opening his palm to receive the coin, larger than a quarter, gold. “To thine own self be true,” he reads slowly, brushing his finger over the roman numeral one. “Becca…”

“One year sober chip. Happy sober-versary, bro.” The words are casual but the tone is not. 

“Beck,” he breathes, overcome, and she punches him. 

“Shut up.”

“I love you.” It comes out choked. 

She jumps on his back and wraps her arms around his neck. “Make me some mac ‘n’ cheese?” It takes until she’s hugging him goodbye hours later for her to say, “Love you too.”

\--

"What even is this?" Natasha gripes. 

"Dinner," Buck retorts. 

"Is it ... edible?"

"It is my mission in life to prove that all of you are wrong, and that my taste is in fact, impeccable."

"You're high," she mumbles.

"Not anymore. Dig in motherfuckers!"

Steve, Nat, and Sam stare dubiously at the table, and Buck doesn't blame them, though he'll never admit it. The menu consists of broccoli and cheetos, pringles and nutella, and grilled cheese on banana bread. There's also garlic roasted cauliflower, which isn't weird, just delicious.

Sam picks up a chocolate covered chip and crisps into it, chews...

"Well?'

"Oh," he says, genuinely surprised. "That is actually..." He grabs another. "That is really good."

Steve grins, already halfway through a grilled banana bread and cheese. Nat rolls her eyes and sighs. "You guys are gross."

She finishes the broccoli. No one mentions it.

\--

He’s so nervous there’s a genuine possibility he’ll throw up on Steve. The struggle is real.

It’s time though. He knew it was time yesterday when they raced the bikes out in the country and Steve cackled with childlike laughter at a dad-joke that he himself told. Knew it was time a week ago when they dropped off the first check to fund a group home for kids with powers. Knew it last month when Steve came with him to meet some of the kids Buck’s parents had saved, and stood in the back of the room, watery-eyed and beaming. 

To be fair though, Buck knew the day they met. It just took him awhile.

“S-Steve?”

“Hey, Buck.” 

He’s in the kitchen, gasping for air between chugging carton of chocolate milk, and Buck makes a face. “Ugh. Gross.”

“What? You don’t like me when I’m sweaty?” he teases. 

“No! I mean, yes, I do, it’s the milk - I just - you know what? Never mind,” and he spins around to leave. 

“Wait, wait,” Steve chuckles. “Come back. What?”

Bucky blanks, honest to god freezes up and instead just shoves the envelope into Steve’s chest, and Steve opens it, frowning. “What is this?” 

He looks so gorgeous, flushed and glowing and beautifully fit, blue eyes sparkling and all that joy and gratitude Bucky keeps barely contained in his chest threatens to burst out, so he covers his eyes and attempts an explanation. “Don’t interrupt me, or this’ll never get out.”

“O...k…? Are these equations? What are -”

“Steve!”

“Sorry. Sorry.”

“Ok. So. When I got the serum, I requested a copy of the formula as compensation. I knew...I know you have a hard time with the whole...living forever thing, and the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Eternity? Watching the people you love die? Anyway, I kinda figured it’d be ok for awhile, ‘cause we got each other, you know? But still. When Nat’s gone, and Beck…” He sighs. “Anyway. I isolated the anti-aging component in the serum and created an antidote. It’s in the testing stages right now, I sent it over for Tony’s people to look at, but…”

Finally he manages to uncover his face, and he blinks at Steve, who’s just staring.

“I wanna live a life with you, Steve. A hundred lives if you want. But then...with this antidote...when you’re ready, I’d like to grow old with you.”

The clock ticks on the wall. Music drifts faintly through the window from the neighbor’s house. There’s a loud engine on the street. The sounds hang in the air, and then Steve exhales so harshly it sounds like it hurt, and tackles Bucky to the wall, kissing him breathless.

“You - ” Kiss. “I just - ” Kiss. “You’re magnificent.” Neither of them are crying, which is a fucking miracle. “I love you so much, Buck. And yes. Yes. I’d love to grow old with you.”

“Oh good,” Buck breathes, smiling against his mouth. 

“Yes. But not today.”

“Right. I love you, too, by the way.”

“My sweet boy,” he whispers, then pulls back, looping his arm around Buck’s waist. “Come on. We got work to do.”

“We do?”

“Yes! I’ve got a painting I need to finish, and you’ve got that book, and we’ve got to work on plans for the hospital, and Sam and Nat invited us to dinner, but first -”

“First, what?” Buck laughs as he follows Steve out of the kitchen.

“First, I would really love to play.” Ah, there it is, the emotion trembling on the edge of his voice as he turns back and runs a hand down Buck’s left arm, delicate and sure over scars and metal, and Bucky beams. 

Glows. Incandescent, he feels it, strong and sure and capable. 

He tears his shirt up over his head and throws it on the floor. “Is that a yes?” Steve mumbles through a smile.

“Yes,” Buck declares, then slaps him soundly on the chest, hard enough to make a thudding noise and takes off for the stairs at top speed hollering, “Tag! You’re it!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visit me at seasless.tumblr.com.


End file.
